


All That Goes Unsaid

by Marbled Wings (LynxRyder)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale goes to therapy, Crowley struggles with issues, Crowley to the rescue, Depression, Established Relationship, F/M, First Time, Genderfluid Crowley, Ineffable Love, M/M, Pregnancy (Anathema), References to past trauma, There are happy times too!, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-09-08 02:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20285632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynxRyder/pseuds/Marbled%20Wings
Summary: ‘Crowley, you love children.’‘No-I-don’t.’The lie tasted good, better than the truth.‘Is this because of Warlock?’ Aziraphale asked, ‘Because of what happened when…?’‘Stop.’After an announcement by Anathema and Newt stirs up painful memories, Crowley spirals and Aziraphale, wrestling with issues of his own, decides to seek help from a therapist. Featuring communication issues, major depressive episodes, Crowley's incredible babysitting skills and a general relationships-are-hard-but-love-conquers-all vibe.





	1. An Announcement

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows on from [Fall Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19777468/chapters/46818973) but you don't need to have read it to leap straight in here (events in Fall Here are only briefly referenced). All you need to know is that Crowley and Aziraphale are in an established relationship and have the kind of problems that come when you're living together, have more practice keeping secrets than talking to each other, and have thousands of years worth of baggage to contend with. 
> 
> Although Anathema and Newt are present throughout the story, Anathema more so, they are still very much background for much of it so if that's your ship, you may be disappointed.

They had not picked the best day for exploring the open lawns and faded borders of Kew Gardens. Newt and Anathema were hand in hand ahead of them, both wearing long coats and scarves, apparently unaffected by the biting wind that kept cutting across their path to remind them that they had not even reached full winter yet. Even Aziraphale, who had been content to follow the young couple for the best part of two hours now, was beginning to take on the look of someone who would very much like to drift in the direction of the nearest café. As for Crowley, he had not even wanted to come in the first place and he’d be damned, again, if he let so much as a suggestion of enjoyment spoil his countenance. The only reason he was there at all was to avoid the inevitable accusations that he did not make an effort with their human “friends”. Apparently it was important to become close to mortals you had saved the world with so that you could watch them wither and die and feel even worse about the suffering in between than you usually did. Crowley dug his hands deeper into his pockets and glowered at Newt’s back if only because the man was quite clearly terrified of him and glowering at Anathema was not nearly so effective. It hadn’t been so bad when the pair of them had lived a decent distance away but since they had moved to London, Aziraphale had insisted on making them feel welcome which involved interminable trips like this one roughly once a fortnight.

‘It’s really not that bad,’ said Aziraphale, his breath pluming out ahead of him, ‘Look, is that a butterfly?’

It was a leaf, a brighter orange than the others tumbling with it but a leaf nonetheless. Crowley spared it a single glance.

‘Really,’ said Aziraphale, slipping his arm through Crowley’s and tutting, ‘Could you at least make the tiniest bit of effort?’

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

Aziraphale frowned.

‘They’re going to think you don’t like them if you carry on like this.’

‘A nice and accurate summary of the situation,’ muttered Crowley.

Aziraphale sighed but chose not to engage any further. He knew full well that Crowley only found winter bearable if he could sleep through great stretches of it. He had tried to do just that several times but Aziraphale kept waking him after a few days on the flimsiest of pretexts.

‘I’ve just had a new delivery of books and I thought you might want to help me sort them.’

‘I made my own marmalade. Do you want to try it?’

‘That film you like is on the television. The one with all the fighting. I didn’t think you’d want to miss it.’

That last one had been particularly irksome considering he owned the damn thing on DVD. Still, it wasn’t so bad being awake in the winter if he was at home in the bookshop under a pile of blankets with cocoa and, more importantly, whisky on tap. He didn't even blame Aziraphale for waking him, not really. He knew all too well how it felt to be lonely. 

‘Hey guys, do you want to go in there?’

Anathema was pointing at the jagged outline of a glasshouse. The architecture of it suited Crowley’s mood.

‘Absolutely, my dear,' said Aziraphale, his pace increasing notably, 'Lead the way.’

Then, to Crowley, 'It'll be warmer in there. Please try, for me.' 

Crowley rolled his eyes behind his glasses.

It was warmer. So warm in fact that Crowley could have quite happily stood for an hour amongst the cacti while the others meandered wherever the fancy took them. They could come and collect him later. Unfortunately, Aziraphale was very much of the mind-set that making an effort included staying with the group. Luckily, the next room was warmer still, the humidity making everyone but Aziraphale stop to wipe off their glasses. Crowley felt some of his irritability give way to a kind of languid contentment.

‘I thought this might be more your kind of place,’ said Anathema.

She had snuck up on him, her dark eyes seeing more than most. Crowley grudgingly acknowledged her perceptiveness with the merest hint of a smile.

‘Apparently there are lizards that live here,’ said Anathema, brushing past damp leaves and darkening the rich blue material of her coat sleeve.

She was not the first person to wrongly assume he must have an affinity with other animals. There were not many creatures on Earth that welcomed the presence of a snake, even other reptiles. Still, Crowley supposed she was just trying to make conversation and considering his behaviour up to that point this was quite brave in its own way.

‘I’ll find you one.' 

It was not difficult to track a particular heat signature and Anathema was, predictably and a little touchingly, delighted. Crowley stayed back but the chinese water dragon did not take its eyes off him for a moment. Crowley resisted the temptation to send it hurtling away with a low, menacing hiss.

‘That was very nice of you,’ said Aziraphale, coming up beside him and taking his hand. He had taken his gloves off but Crowley’s were still on. The outside was still waiting to steal all his accumulated heat after all.

‘Not nice,’ said Crowley, more out of habit than anything.

‘Whatever you say,’ said Aziraphale, fondly.

Anathema was now taking a photo of Newt with the lizard in the background. Any moment now she was going to ask for a group selfie and Crowley was going to severely regret having put that compulsion into the minds of humanity.

‘They look happy, don’t they?’ said Aziraphale, watching Anathema laughing at Newt’s fear of getting closer to the lizard.

‘She does,’ corrected Crowley. Newt very rarely looked anything but nervous. Around him anyway.

‘They both do,’ said Aziraphale, and there was something a little strained, a little sad in his voice, ‘Do you think…?’

He trailed off. Crowley turned to look at him.

‘Do I think what?’

‘Oh nothing,’ said Aziraphale, ‘I was just wondering what people think when they look at us.’

Something inside Crowley reared back, afraid, but he steadied himself. They might have had longer to practice than other people but they still managed to misunderstand each other with alarming frequency.

‘What do you want them to think?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Aziraphale, ‘That we’re in love, I suppose.’

‘They know,’ said Crowley, indicating Newt and Anathema with a jerk of his head, ‘Why should anyone else’s opinion matter?’

‘It shouldn’t, but you know that feeling you get when you see a couple and they’re just radiant with love for each other?’

Crowley made a non-committal sound. He was not sure he did know the feeling Aziraphale was alluding to. His own overriding feeling throughout most of history when any star crossed lovers had the misfortune of crossing his path had been jealousy.

‘I like the idea of people seeing us and feeling happy even if they’re not even sure why,’ Aziraphale continued, ‘Especially those who might not feel that they are safe expressing their kind of love.’

‘So what you’re saying is you’d like more public displays of affection, preferably in front of crowds of repressed British people who might be inspired to get it on with whoever they’ve been ogling from afar?’

‘That’s not exactly what I’m…’

‘Challenge accepted!’

Crowley pulled Aziraphale close to him and, relishing his shocked expression, kissed him hard, the way he rarely did when they were anywhere but home.

‘What are you doing?’ Aziraphale barely managed to push him away long enough to ask.

‘Practicing,’ said Crowley feeling that he might as well get something out of this day trip. By the second kiss Aziraphale’s resistance was melting away and by the third Crowley was not entirely sure which of them was tempting the other.

An awkward cough behind them told Crowley they had an audience. He pulled away only because he wanted to see the flush on Aziraphale’s face as he realised that Anathema and Newt were watching them.

'Ah,’ he said, shoving Crowley away, suddenly quite unable to look in his direction at all, ‘Shall we go and find those orchids?’

Crowley smirked and let the others go on ahead. As he approached it the lizard bolted for cover, claws skittering on the walkway.

The orchids were nice enough though Crowley could tell they had not been shouted at, not even once in their entire existence. He narrowed his eyes at one that had not even had the decency to flower. Three buds burst open, trembling with the effort. Newt stared at him then at the flower and back again. Crowley offered no explanation and Newt decided against asking for one. And then he said perhaps the first truly sensible thing anyone had said all day.

‘Shall we find somewhere to have lunch?’

They had to brave the cold again to get there but Crowley endured this with rather more graciousness than he had hitherto been able to muster. This was largely due to the proximity and imminent consumption of scalding hot liquid but Crowley was also very much enjoying Aziraphale avoiding his eye and pretending he was not at all flustered. Crowley would pay dearly for it later. Worth it.

The café was the by far the busiest place in the whole of the Gardens. No surprise there. Aziraphale selected the table, as was his customary habit, though he did not turf anyone out of their seats to secure his first choice as he most certainly would have done had Anathema and Newt not been with them. Crowley sat beside him, so close that their legs were pressed together. A faint blush crept back onto Aziraphale’s face but he made no attempt to pull away. As soon as they’d settled themselves, Crowley being the only one of the four to keep his coat and gloves firmly on, a waiter appeared.

‘I didn’t know they did table service,’ Crowley heard Newt whisper to Anathema, ‘There’s no menu.’

‘Don’t need one,’ said Crowley, ‘Order whatever you want.’

Aziraphale tried to look disapproving but as the alternative was settling for whatever pre-packaged nonsense they had on the shelves, Crowley was confident he would let this one slide. Without any hesitation, Anathema launched into an extremely precise description of what she wanted with step by step instructions on how the eggs must be cooked. She held the waiter’s gaze the whole time, making it absolutely clear that there would be consequences if she was disappointed. Crowley was momentarily flooded with a not entirely welcome feeling of fondness for her, as well as a newly found grudging respect for Newt. Anyone who gave orders like that did not do so solely at meal times.

Orders placed, Crowley leaned back in his chair ready to let the conversation proceed without his direct involvement. Apparently Anathema had other ideas.

‘So,’ she said, locking eyes with Newt who nodded minutely, ‘Thank you both for coming. We actually asked you to come here because we have a little announcement.’

Aziraphale leaned forwards, excited already. Crowley gave no outward show of any emotion whatsoever but inside his heart was doing something strange. There were only a few announcements that humans chose to make such a big deal over. One was marriage. The other was…

‘I’m pregnant.’

Aziraphale clapped his hands together and exclaimed something unreservedly positive while Anathema beamed and Newt looked quietly proud. Then Aziraphale was on his feet, going over to hug them both and everything was sunshine and moonbeams and no one seemed to have noticed that Crowley’s heart had dropped right out of his chest.

‘Crowley?’

‘What?’

Aziraphale was standing between Anathema and Newt, giving him the kind of pointed look that told him he was in trouble no matter what he did next.

‘I said it’s wonderful news, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Yeah. Wonderful. Great stuff.’

Anathema’s smile became rather fixed. Newt lost his entirely. And Aziraphale glowered at him. Crowley looked at all three of them, felt their feelings coalesce to a single fixed point. Nice to have a common enemy. It would have been better if he had stayed home, just as he had wanted to, just as he certainly would be from now on. No good came of friendships with humans, he’d done it all before.

‘I’ll see you at home,’ he said to Aziraphale, standing up and walking away before anyone, even an angel, could stop him.

He was in bed when Aziraphale returned. Crowley listened to him moving around the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea. It might have been his imagination but it did sound like Aziraphale was being a lot noisier than usual. Was it strictly speaking necessary to slam quite so many cupboards and drawers? His best play, the only one if he had any chance of avoiding a row, was to go downstairs and make his apologies before Aziraphale could start laying into him. Which was all well and good but his stupid body kept betraying him and he wasn’t about to go downstairs and face Aziraphale in the state he was in. So he stayed where he was, hoping Aziraphale was mad enough to leave him alone at least for the night.

No such luck. It took about an hour but the creaking of the stairs betrayed Aziraphale’s approach. Crowley lay still in the dark, waiting for the inevitable.

‘Crowley?’

Aziraphale’s voice was tight. Crowley could imagine his expression, the frown of anger, the sad eyes of disappointment, the way both would be softened by concern. Aziraphale was far too generous to think him a truly awful person. Even when he was.

‘Crowley, I was really hurt by your behaviour today.’

Crowley let the words wash over him. He would feel them later.

‘I won’t disturb you any more. I’ll be downstairs if…’

Crowley sniffed. Damn it.

‘Crowley?’ Aziraphale had moved into the room. ‘Are you…crying?’

Fuck.

‘You are,’ said Aziraphale, his tone one of bewilderment, ‘Whatever’s the matter, my dear?’

Crowley gave a humourless sort of laugh as he passed one hand over his face. He really did not want Aziraphale to see him like this. Again.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘About today. I’ll apologise to book girl and the geek.’

‘They have names,’ said Aziraphale, sitting down on the bed, ‘They’re our friends.’

‘They’re your friends,’ Crowley corrected, ‘And I’m not going to be pretending otherwise any more.’

‘Crowley…’

‘No, don’t argue with me. I can’t, Aziraphale. Not if she’s…not if they’re…’

‘Oh.’

Aziraphale’s compassion filled the air with its gentle light, Crowley felt it on his skin even before Aziraphale came to lie beside him.

‘It’s the baby,’ he said, with more understanding than Crowley could have hoped for, ‘Oh Crowley, I didn’t think.’

‘Well, obviously I didn’t handle it very well. If you recall, I didn’t even want to be there.’

He was perilously close to blaming Aziraphale for not knowing what neither of them had known just so he had a place to put some of these squirming, awful feelings. He wanted them out from beneath his skin. He wanted to become someone else entirely.

Aziraphale reached out and brushed a tear from his cheek. The tenderness of it made Crowley want to knock his hand away. He did not deserve it.

‘You know,’ said Aziraphale, ‘Anathema wants you to be the baby’s godfather. She said it wouldn’t be right if it was just one of us.’

‘I’m not going anywhere near that baby, church or no church.’

‘Crowley, you love children.’

‘_No-I-don’t_.’

The lie tasted good, better than the truth.

‘Is this because of Warlock?’ Aziraphale asked, ‘Because of what happened when…?’

‘Stop.’

Crowley did not want to think about that boy. He did not want to think about how it had felt to hold him, watch him grow, hear him call out for Nanny, soothe him to sleep, tell him he was loved, to let him go. The pain of it damn near ripping him in half.

‘It won’t be like that this time,’ said Aziraphale, quietly, ‘We’ll get to be there for his or her whole…’

‘Will we?’ said Crowley, the flash of anger oh-so-welcome, ‘You think because his parents know what we are that it’ll somehow be okay that we don’t age? You think anyone wants a demon around their kid? Sure, they’re okay with it now. What happens when their pride and joy starts exhibiting the usual psychopathic tendencies of toddlerhood? You think they’ll take it all in their stride or will they think twice about allowing actual evil to babysit their child?

‘Warlock’s parents wouldn’t have noticed if I was an actual snake but this kid, this kid is going to be loved hard. And they’re not going want to fuck it up.’

Aziraphale was listening, looking quietly horror-struck.

‘Crowley, I don’t think…’

‘No, you don’t, that’s the problem. You’re an angel. Of course they want you in their lives. Do you honestly believe the same applies to me?’

‘Yes,’ said Aziraphale, without hesitation, ‘I don’t think they see you any differently. I think this is more about how you see you than anyone else.’

‘Right. Remind me what Warlock said to me when we went to check on him? Remind me how that went.’

‘He’s a teenager, that’s no true indication of…’

Crowley switched tacts.

‘How many people tell their kids stories about Satan and his demons to comfort them? How many ask Hell to watch over them while they sleep?’

‘I’m sure there are a few,’ said Aziraphale, stepping out onto some seriously shaky ground, ‘But that’s not the point. Anathema and Newt don’t see you as a demon. They see you as Crowley, someone who helped them save the entire world. A hero. They don’t know you as well as I’d like them to because you hold yourself at a distance but you like them, I know you do. If anything happened to either of them, you’d be devastated. So there’s no point going on with this pretence that you can protect yourself by not getting attached. We’re here, we’re as human as we can be, and that means we’ll make and lose friends over and over again. And it will never stop hurting but we’ll still have each other, and we’ll have the memories. And right now, we have the chance to be part of a child’s life again.

‘I think that’s something you want. Something you’ve never let yourself believe you’d ever have again because you never thought you’d have it the first time, and it hurt so much when it was over. It hurt me too. But I’m not going to let the thought of losing something stop me from experiencing it again. I want to be a godfather, a real one this time, and yes, we’ll still have to do some pretending but I’ll bet Anathema will be telling the child exactly who we really are before it’s even said its first word.’

Aziraphale’s speech was nearing its conclusion, Crowley could always tell.

‘I’ll do this on my own if I have to but I would truly love to share this with you. At least think about it, we could talk it over, maybe discuss your worries with Anathema and Newt.’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘To talking to them?’

‘To all of it. I’m serious, Aziraphale. You’re on your own.’

Aziraphale looked as if was trying to find some more convincing arguments but he let them go with a sigh.

‘Okay,’ he said, reaching forwards and kissing Crowley very softly. He even tasted of disappointment. ‘I’m going to go downstairs and read for a while. Is that okay?’

Crowley nodded though he was not sure whether he wanted Aziraphale to go. To stop talking, yes, but maybe not leave entirely. When he reached the door, Aziraphale paused.

‘I love you, Crowley.’

He did not wait for Crowley to say it back. When he reached the kitchen, there would be a vase of deep red roses in the centre of the table, each one blooming to perfection. And if they knew what was good for them they would stay that way for as long as they possibly could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any comments gratefully received. You can also find me on Tumblr @marbledwings


	2. Sleeping on the Ceiling

Aziraphale had taken a seat in the dead centre of the faded blue sofa, his back impeccably straight, knees together. He patted them, realised he was betraying his tension and clamped his hands hard on his thighs which only served to make him look more nervous than ever. It was week three and it was not getting any easier, if anything he was finding the whole process more torturous than ever. Susanna was settling herself into her chair, her notebook open on her desk. Aziraphale would have preferred to address her as Doctor but she did not like that, preferring him to use her first name. The lack of formality was just another thing that Aziraphale did not like about the hour between six and seven on Monday evenings.

It had been Anathema’s idea. He should not have confided in her, Heaven help him if Crowley ever found out, but Aziraphale had been quite desperate. He did not have an overabundance of people to talk to, most of his acquaintances were business contacts and, rather shamefully, he’d let his friends dwindle to a paltry two. Of the pair of them, Anathema had always seemed to Aziraphale to be wiser and more direct. He was sure if he had given the man a chance Newt would have proved himself to be just as capable a confidante, but if he was honest with himself Aziraphale simply preferred conversing with Anathema.

The initial conversation had occurred a month after the pregnancy reveal. Crowley had been true to his word and had flatly refused to so much as acknowledge Anathema or Newt’s existence. Aziraphale had been trying to explain his absence in the kindest, most generous way possible, over a truly scrumptious brunch at the Ivy.

‘You mustn’t judge him too harshly,’ Aziraphale had said, not at all aware of how little he was really explaining, ‘We had a rather intense time of it a few years ago, there was a child we were both trying to influence and though it was not advisable, regrettably quite a lot of feelings were involved by the end. Crowley would never admit it but he’s always been rather fond of children.’

Anathema had stabbed at a cherry tomato with her fork, frowning at it slightly before saying, ‘So, there was loss.’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s no chance of him changing his mind about being a godfather then?’

Aziraphale had experienced a wave of sadness which had very nearly robbed him of the pleasure of finishing his quiche.

‘No chance at all, I’m afraid.’

Anathema had accepted this without another word and then asked, ‘How are things with the two of you? You seem very happy.’

‘We are!’ Aziraphale had said, before realising he probably should not speak for Crowley, ‘I am.’

It was then he had recalled the previous evening, the kisses in the dark, the press of their clothed bodies, the dark sweetness of each touch, and then Aziraphale had jumped when Crowley had slipped his hand beneath his unbuttoned waistcoat, his inability to relax dousing ice-water on proceedings, Crowley laying his forehead on Aziraphale’s chest as an aching silence filled the room which neither of them knew how to break. It was just as it had been for months, Aziraphale could kiss and be kissed, he could tease and be teased, he could think all manner of wicked thoughts, but when it came to going any further, he just shut down. 

Before he knew it, Aziraphale had been talking, confessing things to Anathema that he should probably have kept to himself.

‘It’s very hard to do something you’ve spent your entire existence resolutely not even thinking about,’ he said, somewhat wretchedly, ‘I thought it would be easier after, well…’

He had trailed away at this point. They had not told Anathema or Newt, or anyone else for that matter, about Hastur or Archangel Michael’s attempts to tear them apart and Aziraphale was not sure telling a pregnant woman that her friends were still being targeted by both Heaven and Hell was the best of ideas.

Anathema, bless her, had treated his unexpected outburst with the utmost respect and consideration.

‘Do you believe sex is a sin?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Aziraphale. 

‘Is it the type of sex then?’ Anathema tried.

Aziraphale had fiddled with his collar at this point, it had suddenly felt rather too tight. He had not wanted to ask what she meant by ‘type of sex’ but Anathema was willing to help him through the discomfort.

‘Is your God the type to draw a distinction between different types of relationship?’ she asked him, ‘Or is it an out of wedlock thing?’

‘Oh,’ said Aziraphale, who suddenly felt compelled to speak up for the all-encompassing love of the Almighty, ‘God is love. She makes no distinction. All of that is purely human nonsense, I’m afraid, and I for one have been putting in a lot of effort to sorting it all out.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Anathema with a soft smile, ‘So if it’s not a sin, perhaps it’s just not something you want?’

If only it were that simple. Aziraphale was absolutely sure that if he felt no desire for sex whatsoever, Crowley would accept this and they would be perfectly happy. Or at least Crowley would pretend to be perfectly happy, a thought that upset Aziraphale whenever he considered it. The truth was, however, that Aziraphale did feel a pull, occasionally more of an ache, whenever he was close to Crowley for any length of time and though it could sometimes be assuaged by being able to kiss him, hold his hand or run his hands through his hair, there were rather a lot of times where the feeling ran deeper. It was not always on occasions Aziraphale had believed typical for this type of thing either. Sometimes Aziraphale ached for Crowley when they were sitting side by side on a park bench, or when he caught Crowley doing something kind for a stranger, or when they were lying together in bed and Crowley was waking up slowly, his sleepy smile doing things to Aziraphale he was sure were not platonic in nature. 

‘Angels aren’t made for these things,’ he had said finally, ‘It doesn’t come naturally to us.’

‘It doesn’t come naturally for some people either,’ said Anathema, with her trademark brand of insight and empathy.

‘Hmmm.’

Aziraphale had poked rather half-heartedly at his custard slice. His unspoken fear was a lump in his throat.

‘What if…?’ he said, focusing on the delicate engraving on his dessert fork, ‘What if Crowley gets tired of waiting?’

Anathema had reached across the table at this point, her fingers touching his wrist.

‘I don’t know him all that well,’ she admitted, ‘But I see your auras when you are together. I really don’t think you have anything to fear there. Crowley is as much yours as you are his.’

This had cheered Aziraphale up considerably. They had chatted pleasantly about other things over dessert until, as they were waiting for the bill, Anathema had made the gentle suggestion which had resulted in Aziraphale’s current posture and nerves.

‘There are people who may be able to help you. Have you ever considered seeing a therapist? It could be something you do together.’

It was at this point that Aziraphale had sworn Anathema to absolute secrecy, not quite implying that Crowley would murder the pair of them if he even suspected the direction of their conversation but hinting heavily enough that she was in no doubt that the consequences of indiscretion would be dire. He had however promised to think about therapy. Thinking had quickly turned to researching and this had resulted in finding Susanna and making excuses as to his whereabouts to Crowley every Monday evening.

‘So,’ said Susanna, smiling at him the way she did at the start of each session, ‘How has your week been?’

Aziraphale, unable to stop himself, launched into a thorough summary of the last seven days getting to halfway through Wednesday and the incident with the postman before Susanna raised a hand to stop him.

‘You’re doing it again,’ she said.

Aziraphale closed his mouth. Yes, he was. And what was worse, he knew it too. He had not once mentioned Crowley’s name.

‘Let’s try a different question,’ said Susanna, ‘How did things go on Friday?’

Friday had been a special evening, date night. Crowley cringed when Aziraphale used the term but he always made an effort simply because Aziraphale asked him to. Not that he needed to make an effort, everything he wore looked like it had been made especially for him by someone who knew Aziraphale’s desired aesthetic far better than he did. He was getting distracted talking about Crowley’s clothes but Susanna did not stop him, letting him finish before she said, ‘And did you ask him to get out of his clothes the way we planned?’

Aziraphale felt his chest tighten painfully. He really, really did not want to talk about this. Absently he began to twist his pinkie ring round his finger, staring at the black and white photo of a Parisian street Susanna had framed on the wall. He liked Paris.

‘Azira?’

His truncated name struck him oddly as it did every time. He had never found it comfortable to make one up but it was not pleasant to hear it in this form either. He swallowed, memories of Friday night flooding in. It had been such a perfect evening with dinner followed by a peaceful walk by the river. At least on the surface it had been peaceful but there had been something about Crowley’s hand in his, and the way he moved, and the smell of him in the cold air that had undone Aziraphale to the point where he simply had to act. He was the one who had initiated the kissing and then, when this had only made his desires more urgent, it had been Aziraphale who had leaned in close, whispering hoarsely in Crowley’s ear, ‘Can we go home now, darling?’

And it was he who had barely been able to wait until the door was closed behind them before slipping his hands beneath Crowley’s shirt so that he could feel the heat of his skin. And even that had not been enough.

‘Would you take it off?’ he had asked, forgetting to say please, barely able to stop himself from ripping the damn thing in his eagerness to divest Crowley of it. Crowley had complied, undoing each button so slowly, partly to tease him, partly because he did not know if Aziraphale was going to change his mind. This was the worst part, Aziraphale thought, because Crowley always knew he would draw back, he just never knew when or why.

And then they had been in the bedroom and Aziraphale had been kissing Crowley’s chest, his hand low down on his naked stomach. The taste of his skin, the warmth of it against his lips, it had all been so perfect and Aziraphale had felt so brave, so ready, which was why he had taken things further than he ever had before and straddled Crowley’s hips. The sound Crowley had made then had gone right through him like a current of something dark and electric and still Aziraphale had felt good. Crowley had looked up at him with such cautious hope, his hands finding Aziraphale’s hips and holding them tight. It had been an incredible view, an incredible feeling. Aziraphale had leaned forwards, intending to merely brush Crowley’s lips with his own and have Crowley make that sweet, tortured sound again but he had not counted on Crowley meeting his kiss with a fierce, desperate one of his own, one hand rising to clasp the back of Aziraphale’s neck so that they were held together.

‘Angel, _please_…’

That one word, loaded with such an immensity of want and need, trembled in the air between them, begging to be acknowledged. Under its weight, Aziraphale’s courage faltered and then crumbled completely. He had kissed Crowley once more, slid off him, and said, ‘I fancy a night cap. Can I get you anything?’

Aziraphale had then left the bedroom as fast as he could and had not returned.

‘Yikes,’ said Susanna, which was not quite the response Aziraphale was hoping for though it was considerably milder than the one he deserved, ‘So you didn’t see each other until the morning? May I ask how Anthony reacted?’

Anthony. Aziraphale wished he could just call him Crowley but when he had tried, Susanna had accused him of distancing himself by using his surname. Sometimes passing as human was irritatingly pedantic. The true answer to how Crowley had reacted was that he had spent the night sleeping on the ceiling, only coming down when Aziraphale had sheepishly entered the bedroom to ask if he wanted breakfast. When Aziraphale had asked if he was okay, without actually alluding to what had happened, Crowley had replied that he was fine and that had been that.

‘So you didn’t talk about it?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Okay,’ said Susanna, in that tone that meant she was about to ask him to do something difficult, ‘How do you think Anthony felt when you left the bedroom that night?’

Aziraphale felt misery pinching the corners of his mouth. He fervently wished he could step into the Parisian street in the photography and disappear down the narrow street. A croque monsieur would have taken the edge off his guilt rather nicely.

‘I don’t know how he felt,’ he said, because he did not want to think about it, he spent a lot of time and energy not thinking about it.

‘How would you have felt?’ Susanna asked, ‘If he had done the same to you?’

This was easier, though Aziraphale still felt as if he was swallowing broken glass as he said, very quietly, ‘Rejected. Humiliated.’

‘Angry?’

Aziraphale drew his shoulders up, his body trying to minimise itself. Susanna knew anger was an issue for him, that the fear of angering his superiors had made him do things he was not proud of as well as shut down any competing desires. 

‘Maybe angry, yes.’

‘Was Anthony angry?’

Aziraphale risked a glance at the memory of Crowley the morning after, sleep tousled and utterly gorgeous in his black, silk pyjamas until with a snap he had been fully dressed, glasses on. If he had been angry, he had far too much practice hiding it to let it show.

‘I don’t know. He should have been. I wish…’

‘You wish?’

‘I wish he had been,’ Aziraphale admitted.

‘Because you feel you deserved it?’

He nodded, feeling more vile and worthless than ever. It made no sense. He had wholeheartedly believed, after their miraculous escape from Michael, that all his reservations and shame around sex would dissolve, that all he needed was time and a little more of Crowley’s incredible patience. Meanwhile, Crowley told him again and again with and without words that he was fine with what they had already. He tried not to initiate any touch that he was not absolutely certain Aziraphale was happy with, would rarely even let kisses deepen without Aziraphale leading the way. Being so restrained had to be difficult, painful even, but Crowley never complained, his joyful disbelief that he was even allowed to touch Aziraphale at all still so evident. So why did Aziraphale keep pushing them into territory that unsettled and upset them both? What was wrong with him? And how much longer was Crowley going to allow him to wind him up and then walk away?

‘You bring this up a lot, this fear. Has Anthony ever talked about leaving you?’

The question slipped a thin blade between Aziraphale’s ribs.

‘No.’

‘Do you have any reason to suspect he might leave?’

‘No.’

‘Okay, let’s work on the assumption he is not going anywhere in that case.’

Aziraphale liked this idea, liked Susanna for suggesting it. He would try to shelve this particular worry temporarily.

‘So, as far as I can see it, you’re able to follow your instincts and your desire up until a certain point at which you start overthinking everything and your mind shuts down your body’s ability to respond.’ Susanna tapped her pen against her lip. ‘Sometimes when this happens to people, there’s a definite trigger, a touch or a memory or a phrase that takes them back to an incident in their past. We can work on identifying potential triggers but I think it is absolutely imperative that you do not make any more physical advances towards Anthony unless you are prepared to talk through the reasons you might have to stop.’

Aziraphale acknowledged this with a glum nod.

‘What are you thinking?’ Susanna asked, after a full minute of silence.

What he was thinking was that restraint was not something he was particularly good at, whether it was the last slice of lemon meringue pie or the idea of pulling Crowley closer now that he was allowed to. He rather suspected he was something of a hedonist without the ability to add sex to his repertoire.

‘You look very unhappy,’ said Susanna.

‘Yes,’ said Aziraphale, ‘I suppose right at this moment I am. I don’t think I know how to stop wanting more from Cr-Anthony, and I think that means I might have to give up touching him completely.’

Something like alarm crossed Susanna’s face.

‘Is denial your usual method of coping with something difficult?’

Aziraphale could vividly imagine Crowley’s answer to that.

‘I rather think so, yes.' 

‘How do you think it would feel not to be able to touch the man you love in any way?’ Susanna asked him, gently, 'And how would he feel?' 

Aziraphale did not need to think about how they would feel, he knew only too well. He did not want to imagine Crowley’s silent devastation, the way he would betray his hurt only once and then pack it carefully away. 

‘You’re right, I can’t do that.’

Susanna offered him a small smile.

‘What you can do is tell Anthony that you’re coming here and why, that he hasn’t done anything wrong and that you want to be able to find a place of intimacy that you can feel comfortable in together.’

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

‘Why not?’

Because Crowley would discorporate me and then come after you, was Aziraphale’s first overdramatic thought.

‘Anthony has a problem trusting other people.’ 

‘Sounds like he might benefit from some therapy himself,’ said Susanna, with kind intent.

Aziraphale offered her a thin smile in return. He was pretty sure Crowley would rather go back to Hell than let a human have access to his innermost thoughts.

‘Alright, if telling him about these sessions is off the table, then we’re left with telling him how you’re feeling. Do you think it might help him to know that you’re struggling with certain aspects of your relationship but you’re trying to understand why?’

Aziraphale acknowledged the validity of this without letting himself think too much about how he might begin to broach the subject. The clock behind Susanna’s desk was rapidly counting down the remaining minutes of their session and Aziraphale felt miserable that he had not made more progress.

‘I would counsel you to be very clear with your intentions and boundaries,’ Susanna said, closing her notebook, ‘Far clearer than you have been with him thus far. Personally, I feel like working on your communication is the priority. Let’s try a quick exercise before we finish up.’

The session ended and Aziraphale headed back outside, his head spinning. Hailing the taxi which had conveniently turned round the corner towards him, he ran through his excuse for being out, checking it would hold up to scrutiny. Part of him wished Crowley did know what he had been doing so that he might talk it all over with him, but then, if Aziraphale had been able to do that there would be very little point to the therapy at all.


	3. Dark Miracles

Crowley was sitting behind the till, feet up on the desk in flagrant disregard of Aziraphale’s no shoes on the furniture policy. If he was minding the shop, Crowley considered it only fair to introduce his own rules, the first of which was to do as he damn well pleased. If anyone made the mistake of assuming this was a shop that welcomed customers, they were usually relieved to find that the owner of the shop was absent. At first. Undaunted by Crowley’s utter disinterest in their presence, one individual foolishly approached him to ask, ‘Do you have any books on astrology?’

Really, it was an achievement that Crowley could still find creative ways to throw people out of the shop. He didn’t even think Aziraphale would blame him for that one. 

Back at the desk, Crowley let his thoughts wander. They landed where they almost always did when given free reign, Aziraphale’s smile lighting up the dark corners of his mind like holy candles. He was off on some angelic business, having decided that retirement did not suit him. Crowley suspected that this sudden urge to be dutiful had a lot more to do with one of his favourite restaurants being threatened with closure than any burning desire to be Good. Not that he was in any position to judge. Besides, he enjoyed watching Aziraphale eat the food there, if a few miracles had to be spent to ensure their mutual pleasure continued then so be it.

Miracles aside, Aziraphale had been spending more time away from him lately. He had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the role of godfather to the unborn spawn of Anathema and Newt despite the job not officially beginning until the birth of said child. Newt had managed to secure himself some kind of job which necessitated a fair bit of travel which had left a vacancy open for Chief Assistant to Mother To Be. Crowley had to wonder whether Anathema required Aziraphale’s assistance quite as often as he seemed to provide it but as he had sworn not to be involved in any way whatsoever he had no one to ask.

This did not stop Aziraphale talking to him about all things pregnancy related, however, sometimes spouting such nonsense that Crowley had been compelled to add a selection of carefully chosen volumes on pregnancy and child rearing to one of the bookshop shelves. Really, aside from the absolute basics, Aziraphale had very little practical knowledge of this aspect of humanity. Everything from the relentless nausea and sickness that kicked in within the first few weeks to the bodily changes Anathema experienced week on week filled Aziraphale with both curiosity and wonder, along with, Crowley suspected, just a little bit of horror. Just wait until the paying for the sins of humanity aspect of labour, Crowley thought. Quite how he had managed to accumulate accurate and detailed knowledge on the subject while Aziraphale remained half convinced that storks made regular deliveries to breeding couples, Crowley had no idea. Presumably Aziraphale had simply never been interested in that side of things. Crowley sighed, wishing for a distraction. These kind of thoughts never led him to good places.

When the phone rang Crowley’s first far too optimistic thought was that Aziraphale might have actually remembered to take his new mobile with him and was calling to check on him. After factoring in the astronomical unlikelihood of this being true, Crowley felt less compelled to get up and answer it. When it rang again he stared at it, wondering whether fielding calls fell under the purview of minding the shop. As the phone rang for a third time with barely a pause between each call, Crowley decided that Aziraphale would probably consider it part of the job. There was also the unavoidable fact that he had precisely zero other things to do.

‘Fell and Co,’ he drawled, lazily.

‘Aziraphale?’

The name was panted out in a familiar but strained sounding voice.

‘Anathema?’

‘Oh, hi Crowley.’ She sounded odd, like she had been running. Did pregnant women run? Was that a thing? ‘Is…is Aziraphale there?’

‘Nope.’

There was a pause in which Crowley heard Anathema suck in a breath. She clearly wanted to speak to him about as much as he wished to speak to her. Which was fine. Absolutely, completely fine.

‘Do you…will he be back soon?’

‘No idea,’ said Crowley, enjoying the chance to be deliberately obtuse, ‘Try his mobile.’

‘I’ve been trying, he’s not picking up.’

A faint prickle of unease troubled Crowley’s conscience then. Anathema sounded worried. He could reassure her that Aziraphale was perfectly fine, if completely incapable of adapting to modern technology, but perhaps it was not Aziraphale’s wellbeing that was concerning her.

‘I’ll keep trying,’ she said, her voice a little fainter, ‘Thanks anyway. Sorry for…’

She broke off abruptly and let out a low moan that hit Crowley right in the gut. His immediate thought was labour but that was months away. She had only just had a scan which put her at what twenty one or twenty two weeks pregnant at most? Crowley’s quick calculations were setting off further alarm bells.

‘Anathema, are you okay?’

‘I…no, I’m not. I fell and I think I must have passed out for a bit. I’ve been having these pains ever since and now I’m…’

She broke off again, stifling a sob. Crowley listened to her, running through the various options in his head, too busy thinking to remember to clue her in that he was still there.

‘It’s fine,’ she said, misinterpreting his silence, ‘I’ve called an ambulance. They told me it would be about an hour so I’ll just have to wait. If you hear from Aziraphale, can you…?’

‘I can get to you faster.’

Anathema really did start crying then which was hardly encouraging but she did manage to squeeze two words out between sobs.

‘Thank you.’

‘Listen to me,’ said Crowley, making his decision, ‘I am coming to you right now. Do not put down this phone.’

Anathema began to say something, a question curving down the line, but Crowley was no longer listening. With a clatter, the receiver of Aziraphale’s old bakelite hit the floor.

One minute and thirty seven seconds later and he was standing in Anathema’s cluttered hallway, feeling lightheaded and strangely euphoric as the last of his corporeal form reassembled itself.

‘Holy shit,’ was Anathema’s choice of greeting.

‘Less of the holy, if you don’t mind,’ said Crowley, taking in the sheen of perspiration across her forehead, the way she was cradling the curve of her bump with one arm and gripping the back of a chair tensely with the other hand. 

‘How did you…?’ she asked, staring at the phone in her hand as if she half expected someone else to materialise out of it. Crowley took it from her, figuring that now was not the best time for an explanation of demonic abilities.

‘You’re bleeding.’

Anathema looked down at her stained dress though she surely already knew. Crowley stepped closer to her and she reached for him, holding tight to his arm, fingernails digging in like claws.

‘I’m losing it, aren’t I? I’m losing the baby.’

Crowley hesitated. He should not use his powers but he could not stand there doing nothing. Without seeking permission he laid his hand on the swell of Anathema’s stomach. Her eyes were fixed on him but he ignored her, seeking the life inside her. Distress rose up at once. Something ruptured was straining. And a heartbeat, light and fast. A fish running out of water. Crowley pulled his hand away but not before he had glimpsed tiny limbs, a tiny face.

‘We’re not waiting for the ambulance.’

Anathema bit back a groan and her body sagged under the weight of pain.

‘Newt has the car,’ she managed to gasp.

‘There are other cars,’ said Crowley. In next door but one’s driveway a Jeep flashed its lights once as the doors unlocked while its owners found themselves inexplicably overcome by the desire to take a prolonged nap.

‘Can you walk?’ Crowley asked.

‘I…I think so.’

It was less walking, more waddling, with stops every few seconds when the cramping overwhelmed her. Crowley did not try to rush her though every nerve inside him was alight with urgent panic. He could carry her but he had no idea what excessive jostling would do. Whatever damage he might be doing by interfering, he wanted to keep it to a minimum.

His restraint evaporated the moment her seatbelt snapped into place. The Jeep engine whined in protest but Crowley silenced it with a thought. Anathema braced herself against the dashboard but said nothing as Crowley coaxed more speed from the car than it had ever been designed to produce. He did not ask where they needed to go, the location of the nearest hospital shining in his mind like a beacon. All he needed to do was get them there as fast as was humanly possible (considerably faster, in fact). Thirteen minutes later and they were screeching to a halt in the emergency bay of the maternity wing of St Mary’s Hospital.

‘You can’t stop here!’ cried an outraged security guard who promptly found himself walking briskly in the opposite direction. Coming and going around them, most of them openly gawking, were humans in wheelchairs. Crowley summoned one with a click. As he helped Anathema out of the car, a gush of blood ran down her legs and she gave a tiny, agonised cry. This time Crowley acted without thinking, unable to stop himself. Putting his hand on her stomach once more, he leaned in and said in a low, menacing growl, 'Don't even think about it, kid.' 

Within seconds, medical personnel had surrounded them and Anathema was whisked away, leaving Crowley standing by the Jeep which took the opportunity to blast its car alarm, screaming for rescue far too late.

The waiting room had emptied the moment he entered it and had stayed that way. Crowley was alternating his pacing with a bout of sitting nervously, his left leg bouncing up and down despite all his efforts to still it. The last time he had been inside a hospital had been delivering the Antichrist and these memories jarred unpleasantly with the still present sensations of Anathema’s baby, clinging to life, barely there. He had tried calling Aziraphale every ten minutes since arriving despite suspecting that the damn phone was back at the bookshop somewhere, buried under a pile of unopened post. The last message he had left, purely for catharsis, had been so full of expletives a nurse who had overheard had threatened to evict him from the hospital. She had not been intimidated by the resulting glare in the slightest. Crowley had been cooling each cup of tea she made to a couple of degrees below tepid ever since. The woman was close to the edge.

When Newt arrived, he barely spent ten seconds in Crowley’s company before someone came to show him through to wherever Anathema was being treated. It would probably have been better for Crowley to go at this point. There was nothing he could do, no one wanted him there, and he was perilously close to setting something on fire, but he could not make himself leave. He was about to type his one hundred and twenty second message to Aziraphale when he felt the unmistakeable warmth of his presence somewhere close by.

Aziraphale, ruffled and out of place, but all the more perfect for it, arrived in the waiting room and Crowley felt half of his muscle locking tension leave him the instant their eyes met.

‘Crowley! My dear, what on Earth has happened?’

‘I left you messages!’

‘I know, I saw when I got home but I couldn’t get them to play!’ said Aziraphale, producing his phone and holding it out like it had bitterly disappointed him.

‘You’re supposed to have it with you, angel!’

‘Now don’t tell me off, I…’

‘Anathema was trying to reach you before she got through to me.’

Aziraphale clutched the phone to his chest, looking guilty and then he gave himself a little shake, focusing on the task at hand.

‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Crowley, ‘They took her away, Newt went off to find her. I think we’re supposed to wait here.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Aziraphale grabbing Crowley by the hand and marching towards the nurse’s station. Crowley watched him work his magic on the nurse he had been tormenting, saw the frosty expression she had probably been wearing since 1972 melt under Aziraphale’s heavenly glow.

‘See,’ said Aziraphale, as they made their way through a labyrinth of corridors to the ward they had been directed to, ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’

Crowley decided to keep his own thoughts on the subject to himself.

The ward was the kind of grim holding pen that humans inexplicably continued to believe qualified as a healing environment. Crowley would have preferred to fall back but Aziraphale had not let go of his hand and was striding through the curtained beds like an angel on a mission. Newt stood up when he saw them. He had not taken off his coat and looked like he was on the verge of tears.

‘She’s asleep,’ he said, indicating Anathema, lying in her hospital bed. There was a drip attached to her wrist. Various machinery surrounded the bed with wires that disappeared beneath her thin blanket. Someone had removed her glasses. Even in sleep her face was tight with pain. Aziraphale moved closer, touching her lightly on the arm. Crowley knew the power of his touch and sure enough Anathema’s expression had already begun to clear. It was only then that he realised that Newt was staring at him.

‘You saved her,’ he said, his voice constricted almost beyond comprehension.

‘And the baby?’

Newt nodded.

‘They said it was a miracle the baby survived.’

Crowley deliberately avoided Aziraphale’s eyes at this point but he could not ignore the way the entire room was lighting up.

‘Reign it in, angel,’ he said, under his breath.

‘Sorry,’ said Aziraphale but he did not sound it, he was looking at Crowley with such open adoration that it should have been embarrassing, but Crowley was distracted by the fact that Newt’s expression was unnervingly similar. He was about to suggest that they left when Newt launched himself forwards, pinning Crowley’s arms to his sides in a ridiculously awkward and entirely unwelcome embrace.

‘Ah,’ said Aziraphale, in response to Crowley’s silent plea for assistance, ‘Let me…’

He peeled Newt off Crowley and enveloped him in a much more satisfactory hug. When Newt’s shoulders began to shake, Crowley decided that enough was enough.

Aziraphale caught up with him at the entrance, twining their fingers together and bumping Crowley’s hip with his own. Crowley shot him a ‘what’s wrong with you?’ look which Aziraphale neutralised with a beaming smile.

‘My darling.’

He was practically purring, boundless pride shining in his eyes.

‘Don’t,’ said Crowley, through gritted teeth. It was unbearable to him for Aziraphale to think this was something to celebrate. ‘I shouldn’t have done it.’

‘Saved two innocent lives? No one is going to punish you for it, my dear, those days are over.’

‘It should have been you.’

‘And I feel bad, Crowley, I really do but I don’t think it matters which one of us…’

‘Of course it matters.’ Crowley could not look at him, could hardly bear to keep speaking. ‘It was dying, angel. The baby was dying.’

‘But you saved…’

‘Yes, _I_ saved. Me, a demon.’

Aziraphale looked at him, puzzled.

‘You’ve performed plenty of miracles with no ill effects. The Arrangement would never have worked otherwise.’

‘Not kids,’ said Crowley, ‘I never performed miracles on kids, not even for you.’

‘Crowley…’

Aziraphale’s voice was so soft, and Crowley knew he did not understand. He would have to spell it out.

‘It’s different with kids, they’re more vulnerable. If a miracle comes from me then its origins are evil. And this kid isn’t even born, we don’t know what the consequences will be. I shouldn’t have done it, I had no right. It should have been you.’

They had reached the stolen Jeep but before Crowley could open the door, Aziraphale pressed his hand to it, holding it shut.

‘Let us presume that you are right,’ he said. 

Crowley had thought it would help to have Aziraphale comprehend the gravity of the situation but hearing him confirm the baby’s fate only made him want to sink down into the ground and never return. Aziraphale raised a hand and cupped his chin, trying to get him to hold eye contact.

‘The child may be touched by darkness but my darling, so are you, and I wouldn’t change a thing.’ He rose up on his toes and kissed Crowley’s cheek. ‘You saved a life and I can promise than no one is thinking about anything more than that.’

‘I don’t…’ said Crowley, quickly, but Aziraphale cut him off.

‘Do you want to know the last thing Newt said to me? He said I had to try and persuade you to be the baby’s godfather because Anathema was going to name you as one regardless. You’re part of the child’s life now, Crowley. You made that choice. And if anyone can help a child struggling with darkness, it’s you.’

As Crowley had no good arguments for that on hand, Aziraphale claimed his victory and they listened to his choice of music all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to get the next chapter posted tomorrow as both this one and Ch 4 are quite short.
> 
> Thank you for your encouragement so far, I really appreciate it.


	4. Wings in the Night

‘Crowley, I would like to…I would very much like to try…’

Aziraphale took a deep breath and tried again.

‘Crowley, my dear, I would like to try…’

His reflection was blushing furiously but Aziraphale forced himself to hold his own gaze. It had been Susanna’s idea to try addressing the words into a mirror as it was his own shame he had to overcome. So far he had made far less progress than either of them would have liked. He had been practicing for over half an hour on this occasion and had not managed to mention any specific body part even once.

‘Oh, you’re hopeless,’ he said to himself. He turned away and sat down on the side of the bath, his failure settling on him like a shroud.

Aziraphale thought miserably of his next session with Susanna and what he would have to tell her. He was getting the sense that he was becoming a severe test of her patience. They went over the same things week after week. Aziraphale came out of each session telling himself that he was going to talk to Crowley this time, he would ask if it was okay to touch him and, if the answer was yes, he would do it and see what happened. And Aziraphale did try, he really did. He’d had the words right on the tip of his tongue so many times. He’d got as far as saying, ‘Crowley, would you be opposed to me…?’ before anxiety had kicked in hard and he’d finished with, ‘…opening a bottle of the Bordeaux?’

‘Whatever you want, angel.’

Oh, how that response haunted him for Aziraphale was sure, almost absolutely sure, that Crowley would have said the same thing if he had managed the question he had intended to ask. Only the tone, he hoped, would have been quite different. How Aziraphale longed to surprise Crowley in the very best way, how he wished to be as confident as he knew Crowley would be if he could only put his groundless fears aside.

One of Susanna’s questions from their last meeting slipped into his mind, the barbs of it catching anew.

‘How many sexual partners has Anthony had?’

Aziraphale had never tried to put a number to it, he really had no idea and he said so.

‘More than you?’ 

More than zero. Yes, definitely.

‘How do you feel when you think about Anthony’s previous partners?’

The honest answer would have been ‘I don’t.’ Aziraphale studiously avoided indulging in any curiosity surrounding this topic and if, by chance, he found himself struggling and in need of distraction then the very best distraction of all was Crowley himself. He had never once mentioned finding anyone else attractive, did not so much as glance at anyone else, and seemed utterly oblivious to the admiring looks he garnered wherever they went. There was no reason to be jealous. 

‘Do you think Anthony loved any of these partners?’

No. Absolutely not. Crowley loved him. He said so all the time.

'But is there a chance he may have said it to someone else?’

Aziraphale stared at the fluffy white bathroom towel folded neatly over the rail on the wall opposite him. A large part of him wanted to take hold of it, bury his face in its soft cotton and scream. It was safe to say he was no longer enjoying therapy.

‘Angel?’

Crowley’s voice roused him from his self-pity and Aziraphale realised he had been in the bathroom for ages, so wrapped in his own miserable thoughts that he had quite forgotten the time. He stood up, various parts of his body aching from being in one position too long.

‘Coming,’ he said.

He did not rush. Crowley had been more than usually mysterious of late, disappearing for whole afternoons and never quite managing to come up with entirely plausible reasons as to why he had been gone so long. Aziraphale had his suspicions, having more than once caught Crowley reading one of the childcare books that were allegedly there for his benefit. Crowley was not ready to admit that he was in any way invested in the baby – a girl they had recently been told – and Aziraphale understood that it was his job to play along. 

The smell of food drew Aziraphale into the kitchen where Crowley was, rather unusually, setting the table.

‘Don’t get excited,’ he said, gesturing towards the takeout boxes on the counter, ‘I didn’t cook or anything.’

He placed a fork down and then added, looking a little uncertain, ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Oh darling, of course not.’

Aziraphale kissed him on the cheek and then went to find plates, not missing Crowley’s half smile. Even though Crowley had chosen the food, he still barely ate anything, focusing on the wine instead. This was good, Aziraphale decided, being brave might be a little easier if they were both a little drunk.

‘Anathema’s invited us over on Sunday. Do you want to go?’

‘Oh?’

Aziraphale felt a tiny tug of annoyance. Ever since Crowley had saved her baby, Anathema had been very keen on him and though he knew he was being ridiculous Aziraphale, occasionally, hardly enough to mention it, felt like he was being edged out.

‘Don’t look like that,’ said Crowley, guessing quite correctly the direction of his thoughts, ‘She probably sent you the same text.’

‘Right,’ said Aziraphale, making a show of checking his pockets though they both knew his phone had probably lodged itself down the sofa cushions again. The bloody thing had a will of its own.

‘Sunday,’ Crowley prompted, ‘You up for it?’

‘Are you?’

Aziraphale felt it was almost his duty to tease Crowley for his refusal to acknowledge that his attitude towards Anathema, Newt and child was any different than it had ever been.

‘Don’t have anything better to do,’ was Crowley’s response, affecting a coolness that was undermined when he stabbed a spring roll with his fork but did not eat it.

‘Perhaps you could go without me,’ said Aziraphale, ‘I have some inventory I wanted to sort through and Sunday would be a good day to…’

Crowley glowered at him. He was not playing the game correctly and Crowley was not amused. Aziraphale took a sip of wine. He was rather enjoying himself.

‘The invitation,’ said Crowley, carefully enunciating every word, ‘Was for both of us.’

‘I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I bowed out this once,’ said Aziraphale, cheerfully, ‘I’ve seen a lot more of them than you anyway and it would give you a chance to have a proper conversation with Newt. Get to know each other.’

The sound of Crowley grinding his teeth was audible.

‘Fine,’ he said.

‘Fine, you’ll go?’ Aziraphale asked, his eyes wide and innocent.

‘Fine, you win,’ said Crowley, barely able to look at him, ‘What do you want?’

‘Dear boy, what could I possibly want?’

Crowley looked very much like he wanted to kick him under the table.

‘You realise it’s not very angelic to gloat.’

‘You must be a bad influence.’

A flash of hurt passed across Crowley’s face disappearing behind his scowl so quickly as to be barely detectable but Aziraphale had seen and was immediately sorry for having caused it. Reaching out, he placed his hand over Crowley’s on the table. Touch was a much faster way of apologising than speech.

‘Of course we can go on Sunday,’ he said, ‘I would love to. Shall I send a reply to Anathema or…?’

Crowley stared resolutely at the ceiling.

‘I may have already said we’d be there.’

‘Excellent,’ said Aziraphale, patting Crowley’s hand, ‘Glad to hear it. I love you.’

Crowley tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as if he suspected some kind of trap. Declarations of love were no longer unusual but there were occasionally times when Crowley did not seem to be able to trust the truth of the words.

‘I haven’t said it today,’ said Aziraphale, ‘And I made a promise.’

Crowley’s expression softened but only slightly.

‘I brought dinner,’ he said. Apparently he was not over the teasing.

‘Yes, my darling, you did.’ Aziraphale let his finger begin to draw circles on Crowley’s skin. ‘Is there something particular you would like as a thank you?’

Crowley made an incoherent sound which Aziraphale understood perfectly.

Susanna had asked him to take note of physical sensations which gave him pleasure and Aziraphale was taking this homework very seriously. Crowley’s lips against his own. Their tongues meeting. Crowley’s fingers in his hair. His breath in his ear and oh, oh Lord, the quickening of everything when Crowley sucked gently on his earlobe.

‘Crowley…’

‘Sorry.’

‘No, it’s…I liked it.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes.’

‘Want me to do it again?’

Aziraphale shivered this time, the pleasure turning to something else. The difference in his reaction did not go unnoticed. Crowley kissed his way along Aziraphale’s jaw and then kissed him softly on the lips.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered. Crowley’s gratitude, his assumption that Aziraphale was not enjoying their closeness as much as he was, made Aziraphale cling to him, wishing he could find those words that he had been practicing over and over again in the mirror.

‘Crowley, I…’

Crowley was so close, filling all his senses, overwhelming him. And those eyes, those incredible, unique, irresistible eyes were focused solely on him.

‘Crowley…’

‘Yes?’

Crowley was not pushing or leading him, he expected nothing. It was safe to ask him something, anything.

‘Would it…could I…may I touch your wings?’

Crowley blinked, the only indication of his surprise. When his wings unfurled they seemed to fill the whole world. Aziraphale’s disappointment in himself that he had been unable to give voice to the question he had intended to ask vanished at the sight of them. Oh, how beautiful they were. He reached out, running one long feather through his fingers. Crowley gave a shudder, leaning forwards slightly and gripping tight to Aziraphale’s arms.

‘Could I do that again?’ Aziraphale asked.

‘Yes,’ said Crowley, ‘If you want.’

‘Turn round.’

Aziraphale felt a thrill of pride and wonder surge through him. Faced with Crowley’s magnificent wings and with an entire night ahead of them, he ran each feather through his fingers, smoothing them, grooming them carefully, one by one. 

* * *

Crowley spent four solid days in a state that could easily have been called euphoria. He might have tucked his wings away but Aziraphale’s touch had awakened his awareness of them in a way that had not happened for millennia. He felt exposed and raw, soothed and sated, and so out of his mind in love that he did not know what to do with all of it. For his part Aziraphale was going about his business looking slightly more proud of himself than usual but otherwise seemed unchanged.

Crowley watched him closely, wanting to do something momentous. He wanted to express his appreciation for Aziraphale’s clever fingers and patient attention. And if he also wished, just a little, to find a way to make Aziraphale feel this way about him, was that so terrible? But Aziraphale gave absolutely no indication that he wanted anything other than good food, time to read and Crowley’s undivided attention on occasion. Further touching was off the table.

He considered his options for a few days and then, on Sunday morning, Crowley made a decision. It took him a while to set everything up, so long in fact that he thought he might run out of time before they had to leave to meet Anathema and Newt. It was possible that he was about to make a massive mistake and his nerves were so intense they hurt. Crowley fidgeted, uncomfortable in his own skin, making a few last minute adjustments. Any moment Aziraphale was going to call for him. He still had time to change his mind, Aziraphale never needed to know.

‘Crowley, my dear? We really should be thinking about making a move.’

Right on schedule. Crowley took a deep breath. Now or never. 

‘Could you come up here a minute, angel?’

The sound of Aziraphale climbing the stairs made Crowley’s heart beat so hard he felt compelled to press his hand to it, willing it calm.

‘What is it, darling?’ said Aziraphale, pushing open the bedroom door, ‘Are you…? Oh.’

Crowley saw his eyes widen as he took in the scene before him. Covering the bed, arranged in neat little rows, was a bright assortment of tiny socks, hats and everything in between. There was no colour scheme, no attempt to coordinate, but that was not to say that Crowley did not have very strict criteria which had to be met for each item. He thought explaining it might be the final nail in the coffin of his all too obvious insanity so he stayed quiet, watching Aziraphale move into the room. He was drawn, predictably, to the miniature sleepsuit with the rainbow pattern and then he spotted the tiny baby grows, each one sporting a tiny pair of silver wings. He lifted one up, smoothing out the cotton.

‘Crowley…’ he breathed. It sounded a lot like reverence but could equally have been shock.

‘I know,’ said Crowley, unable to stop himself, ‘But I never got to do this for Warlock, and Anathema said her family weren’t the kind to help, so…’

He trailed off, aware that he wasn’t really helping his case. Aziraphale was tracing the wing detailing with one finger.

‘Protected by angels,’ he said, softly.

‘An angel,’ Crowley corrected, under his breath. 

Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes shining.

‘Crowley, this is…’

‘Madness?’ Crowley suggested, needing to get it over with.

‘No, darling.’

Aziraphale carefully folded the baby grow and placed it with the others before turning to face him.

‘Come here.’ 

Crowley stepped forwards, wanting to trust the love in Aziraphale’s expression, wanting to believe in all of it.

‘You are wonderful,’ Aziraphale whispered, his hands cradling Crowley’s face, ‘This baby is lucky to have you, and so am I.’

His kiss was so gentle, so tender, that Crowley had to break it off and bury his face in Aziraphale’s curls to hide the tears in his eyes. There was only so much vulnerability he was prepared to share in one day.

‘Just so you know,’ he said roughly as Aziraphale’s arms tightened around him, ‘As far as Anathema and Newt are concerned, you did the shopping.’

‘Of course, dear,’ said Aziraphale, knowing better than to argue, 'Whatever you say.' 


	5. Hateful, Awful Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some pronoun shifts in this chapter because that's the way Crowley likes it.

It was not often that Crowley came to St James’s Park with anyone but Aziraphale. He had been there alone, of course, many times, but walking with Anathema felt strange, a little wrong somehow. She was enormously pregnant and graceless with it, her breathing laboured, her face set in a semi-permanent scowl. When her eyes fell on a parent pushing a pram or carrying a young baby in a sling, she looked down, not raising her head until she was sure the coast was clear. Crowley noticed all of this but had enough darkness of his own to contend with to think of mentioning it.

The last few weeks had been particularly bad. He had not left the house, had spent most of his time in bed asleep, though he tried to have dinner with Aziraphale most evenings. His absence in the wider world had been noted by precisely one human. Anathema, alarmed by his complete withdrawal from her life just as the birth of her baby approached, had taken it upon herself to drop by the bookshop unexpectedly. Crowley, though not exactly thrilled by her intrusion, had rapidly assessed that her need was greater than his and agreed to come for a walk with her before Aziraphale could find a way to force him. Now they were outside, the sun and the ice cream van and the people picnicking on the grass seemed to be irritating both of them equally. 

‘This is awful,’ said Anathema, abruptly, ‘I need to sit down.’

Crowley cleared the nearest bench, even such a minor use of his power draining him more than it should, and for a long time the pair of them sat in silence, Anathema squirming in an effort to find a comfortable position. Crowley let his mind drift back to the dark bedroom above the bookshop. Maybe Aziraphale would read to him for a while when he got home, a reward for making such a big effort for their friend. Maybe he would run his fingers through his hair and say, ‘You did so well today. I’m so proud of you’ and stay with him through the night.

‘Argh, I hate this!’ Anathema cried, bending over slightly as something inside her cramped or stretched, ‘Did God really do this to women to make us suffer for humanity’s sins?’

Guilt slid snake-like into Crowley’s mind, curling round a bright red apple and causing it to fall. Anathema might know he was a demon but there was a lot she did not know and enlightening her on his role in the whole Adam and Eve business was not high on his list of priorities.

‘That’s the story,’ he said, staring straight ahead.

‘Bitch,’ said Anathema, venomously.

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched.

‘Don’t let Aziraphale hear you say that.’

‘Why?’ snapped Anathema, ‘Is he of the opinion that this is a reasonable state for a woman to be in? I CAN’T EVEN PUT ON MY OWN SHOES!’

Her shout scattered the pigeons that had been edging closer to them in the hopes of being fed, half a dozen taking off with clapping wings. Crowley was not displeased, pigeons had always unsettled him for some reason. Anathema, unashamed by her outburst, pushed against her bump with both hands, her face the picture of misery. She wasn’t wrong, God was a bitch, but she was probably looking for something other than confirmation. Before Crowley could say another thing, however, Anathema burst into tears.

‘Sorry, I’m sorry, I know I should be grateful and I am but this is hard, it’s so hard and I’m scared. Sometimes I think I’m going crazy. I wish my mom was here but I don’t know how much help she’d be anyway. She’s always followed the prophecies, without them my family is lost, it’s like they don’t know how to think for themselves. We were so controlled by Agnes and there’s so much I can’t control now. I’m so angry all the time, I’m so full of hateful, awful things.’

Crowley was silent as the hateful, awful things inside him raised their muzzles and began to whine in sympathy.

‘Sorry,’ Anathema said again, wiping her eyes, ‘I don’t really have anyone to talk to about this. Newt is so excited and he’s been working so hard, and everyone else expects me to be full of joy at all times. There’s no room for anything else. There’s no room for me.’

Somewhere behind them a toddler began to scream.

‘Crowley?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Is it normal to feel like this?’

‘I have no idea.’

Anathema was looking at him like she knew he was lying, like there were secrets behind her dark eyes that once belonged to him. Crowley wished she would look away. He did know something of the sorrows that lay in the hearts of women, he knew the whispers they heard in the dark when the men were asleep, knew how much pain they could carry and still keep going. Suffering itself was normal. God set things up that way.

‘How you feel is how you feel, there’s nothing more to it than that.’

There was no weight to his words, no expectation of a reaction one way or the other. If Anathema wanted judgement or reassurance, she had picked the wrong person to confide in. 

‘At least it’ll be over soon,’ she said, her arms moving to cradle the bump she had just been vilifying, ‘Do you think she knows I feel like this? Do you think she’ll hate me?’

‘No,’ said Crowley, ‘She won’t hate you.’

Anathema sniffed.

‘Could you check on her?’ she asked, her voice small, ‘Please.’

Crowley looked at her, saw the way she was biting her bottom lip, her fear so large that it could have drowned them both. She had never once asked him what his powers might have done to her baby, never so much as hinted that she was remotely concerned, and yet Crowley felt it, the undercurrent of unease that kept her awake at night, gave reasons for her pains, speaking quiet, insidious justifications to her every doubt. He had done that to her. And if she asked him to check on the baby, he would check, that was the unspoken deal they had made that day.

The skin across Anathema’s stomach was stretched so tight it felt like the slightest pressure might cause it to rip. It bulged beneath Crowley’s palm as a tiny foot kicked out. Anathema winced and looked away. Crowley maintained the pressure just long enough to get the information he needed and then drew his hand back.

‘She’s doing fine.’

Anathema blinked at him.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yep. She’s anxious to be born.’

‘She is?’

Anathema was holding her bump again, pressing her hands against it in the hope that she might feel some of the magic Crowley felt.

‘When?’ she asked, ‘When is she coming?’

‘I don’t know but she’s ready.’

* * *

Crowley twitched in his sleep, his mind wrapped in the black chains of a nightmare. Aziraphale picked up his bookmark, carefully inserted it inside the pages of Great Expectations, placed the book down on the bedside table and prepared to try and wake him. It had been the same night after night for almost three weeks, Crowley’s depression making it impossible for him to resist sleep, the nightmares ready to claim him when he did.

‘Crowley? Wake up, my darling.’

Crowley flinched at his touch, pulling away, something he never did when he was awake. The night before he had lashed out, catching Aziraphale across the jaw. He had not woken properly until several minutes later and did not remember what he’d done, Aziraphale miracling away the mark the moment he could. It was getting harder to wake him each time and Aziraphale had to wonder whether that meant the nightmares were getting worse.

‘Crowley, come back to me.’

Crowley hissed in a breath like he was in pain, hands twisting around the blanket covering him.

‘Don’t.’

‘Crowley, it’s me. You’re dreaming, my love.’

‘I can’t…don’t…’

Crowley was breathing faster now. It was not hard to imagine something or someone tormenting him, and Aziraphale could not stand it. He redoubled his efforts to wake him, raising his voice, touching his face, squeezing his arm, trying to take his hands, but Crowley was deep inside whatever held him captive and nothing Aziraphale did could reach him. Worse still, every touch seemed to send him deeper inside the misery until Aziraphale shimmied down the bed and pulled Crowley towards him. Crowley tried to fight him off but Aziraphale held on, whispering words of kindness and love as Crowley writhed in his arms. After a minute or so, Aziraphale felt the fight beginning to leave him but he did not lessen the embrace, nor did he pause in his stream of reassurance.

‘I love you. I’m here. You can wake up and I’ll take care of you. No one’s going to hurt you, no one’s going to take you from me. You’re safe.’

Crowley took a deep shuddering breath and then leaned into him, pressing his face against Aziraphale’s chest, grabbing fistfuls of the tartan pyjamas he had started to wear whenever they were in bed together.

‘Nrgh.’

‘What was that?’

Crowley made another unintelligible noise. Aziraphale gave up trying to understand him and buried his face in his hair instead, kissing the top of his head and breathing in the faint smell of wood smoke. 

‘Welcome back.’

‘Where was I?’

Crowley’s voice was muffled but Aziraphale could at least make out the words this time.

‘Somewhere terrible but it was just a dream, it wasn’t real.’

‘Felt real.’

Aziraphale kissed him again, wishing kisses were enough to turn bad dreams sweet.

'Do you want to talk about it?' 

Crowley shook his head or maybe he shuddered, either way Aziraphale did not think he was going to get any detail out of him and he knew better than to push for it.

‘Do you want to go downstairs?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want me to read to you?’

Crowley nuzzled his chest slightly and mumbled something under his breath. Aziraphale thought he caught the word ‘day.’

‘I’m sorry, what was that?’

There was a short pause and then Crowley said, a little more clearly, ‘Could you do what you did last Sunday? With my wings?’

The way he said it, so cautiously, so carefully, so ready for answer to be no, it was enough to break Aziraphale’s heart.

‘Crowley, you only ever need to ask.’

Over the last few months, he had offered to groom Crowley's wings on a dozen occasions and Crowley had always said yes. This was the first time Crowley had requested it himself and Aziraphale felt that this was something of an achievement for both of them. As he settled himself more comfortably and began to work methodically through Crowley's beautiful feathers, Aziraphale felt the residual tension from the nightmare melt away. Providing comfort and pleasure to Crowley was a feeling like no other. It was relaxing for him too, smoothing out each feather, making sure they aligned perfectly with their neighbours. Crowley occasionally gave a very quiet hiss of appreciation but otherwise they did not speak, until Aziraphale, emboldened perhaps by his ability to create calm where there had been a storm, asked, ‘Has anyone else ever done this for you?’

He noticed the tension in Crowley’s spine immediately, felt the way his wings flexed as if they longed to take flight. Aziraphale’s fingers stilled their work. He was not sure how to take the question back or whether he wanted to even if he could.

‘Has anyone ever woken me from a nightmare, held me and then groomed my wings?’ Crowley repeated back to him, slowly, ‘No, Aziraphale, no one else has ever done this.’

Aziraphale reached up and touched the base of Crowley’s right wing, stroking the place right where feathers met skin.

‘But have you ever done anything like this?’ he asked, quietly, so quietly, ‘With anyone?’

Crowley’s skin was so warm even through the silk of his pyjamas. Aziraphale burned to think of someone else putting their hands on him, but would he really deny Crowley the pleasure of such company? Demons did not have to live up to the expectations and burdens of being God's representatives on Earth. And it was not as if he had offered himself. 

Into the silence Crowley breathed a sigh, the sound of a door opening that could never be closed.

‘If you want me to tell you that no one has ever touched me, that you’re the first, I can’t.’

Aziraphale’s heart trembled in his chest. He had known, of course he had known, but the hurt was so much harder to bear than he had imagined. And still, he wanted to know more. Had anyone else placed their hands between Crowley’s shoulder blades as he was doing now? Had anyone else listened to his heartbeat? Had anyone else loved him?

‘I already knew, I knew I wasn’t the first.’

‘Angel…’

‘Were they kind? The others? Did they…?’

What did he want to say? Did they give you what you wanted? Did they make you happy? Did anyone ever hurt you?

‘I can’t talk about this here.’

Crowley’s wings slipped from Aziraphale’s grasp, disappearing as he stood. He was dressed and striding away from him before Aziraphale could fully comprehend that he was being left alone.

‘Crowley, wait…’

Aziraphale trailed Crowley down the stairs and would have thrown himself against the door to stop him from leaving had Crowley not headed straight for the kitchen. Without consulting Aziraphale, he poured out two generous measures of whisky.

‘This is not a wine conversation,’ he said, handing one to Aziraphale and claiming the kitchen table. Aziraphale wanted to sit beside him, to touch him in some small way, but Crowley indicated the sofa with a jerk of his head and Aziraphale did not dare make things worse by sitting any closer.

‘So,’ Crowley said, knocking back his whisky and refilling it at once, ‘You want to know how many people I’ve fucked.’

He drank again, his eyes bright, pupils dilating in the darkness of the moonlit kitchen. Aziraphale, cradling his own whisky, winced. He felt such a jagged mix of emotions that he could not focus on any of them. It was as if he was viewing Crowley through broken glass, even the sight of him cutting deep. Unbidden came Susanna’s voice, preaching caution.

‘You don’t have to tell me anything.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Crowley, his words so clipped their edges were sharp, ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask, I know you’ve wanted to. I’ve wondered whether that’s why you can’t bear me touching you.’

‘No, Crowley, that’s not…’

‘Isn’t it? What is it that bothers you so much? That other people have had sex with me or that I might have enjoyed it?’

‘Crowley, please…’

Crowley slammed his glass down, and Aziraphale, head spinning even without imbibing any alcohol, took a sip of his whisky. It did not burn hard enough. 

‘Let’s get to it then,’ said Crowley, ‘You want to know how many? I honestly don’t know. Didn’t keep count.’

Aziraphale swallowed his next mouthful of whisky too fast. He gasped for breath the moment he could. That hurt. Crowley was watching him, his eyes so snakelike that it would have been no surprise at all for him to taste the air with his tongue.

‘Did you forget I was here to work? Demons tempt people to sin, that’s what we do. And I didn’t always get a choice over how, especially at the beginning.’

There were many wrong things to say and probably only a small handful of right ones. Aziraphale was no longer sure he was capable of telling the difference. Crowley saw him hesitate and read into it God only knew what. 

‘What are you imagining, angel? Do you think sex is all I think about? Do you think I’m motivated by it? Would it make you feel better to know that of all the sex I’ve had there has been precious little I’ve actually enjoyed?’

‘No,’ said Aziraphale, ‘No, that doesn’t make me feel better at all.’

But Crowley did not appear to be listening to him, his voice had turned bitter, his unfocused gaze directed into the past.

‘I was good at it, tempting them that way, drawing men from their wives, ruining marriages, tearing families apart. Most of the time I didn’t even have to try, just had to be in the right place at the right time and look like this.’

He clicked his fingers and his appearance changed. Aziraphale had not seen this version of Crowley for two thousand years. There was nothing overtly sexual about her long red hair, her flowing black gown, her bright, pale skin. And yet, there was something secretive and strange about her, a mystery that might be solved if one could only touch, possess. Something deep inside Aziraphale clenched tight, rebelling against the direction of his own thoughts, and at the very idea of anyone else thinking the same thing, daring to touch her.

Crowley smiled, humourless and sad.

‘Working on you too, is it?’

‘No,’ said Aziraphale, ‘Not in that way, it’s just seeing you like this, thinking of you putting yourself in the way of men…it makes me think of the worst of humanity. I’ve never needed you to look or be a certain way, I’ve never thought of you as bound rigidly to one form the way I am, but I suppose, without realising it, I took comfort in believing you presented as male most of the time. I chose to believe that protected you. I never asked, even when I should have…’

‘I wouldn’t have told you the truth,’ said Crowley, ‘I never wanted you to know.’

‘Why are you telling me now?’

Hurt, as hot and raw as flame, danced in Crowley’s eyes somehow making them more beautiful than ever. Aziraphale hated himself then, hated seeing beauty in his lover’s pain.

‘Because I never thought we’d be here,’ she said, ‘I didn’t think you loving me was possible. But we are, you do and you asked, and I think you deserve the truth from me. You can be honest with me too. If you’re angry, if you’re disgusted, if you’re not sure whether you…’

‘Whether I what?’ Aziraphale asked, hurriedly, ‘Whether I still love you?’

Crowley gave a tiny shrug, like it didn’t matter if she was rejected, like she’d endured worse and survived, but Aziraphale felt the monumental effort it was taking for her to hold herself together, knew it would take only the slightest push to break her beyond repair. Aziraphale stood up and, to his horror, Crowley’s eyes filled with something that could only have been fear. On instinct, thinking only to minimise any threat however non-existent he knew it to be, Aziraphale sank to the floor, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s legs and pressing a kiss to each of her knees.

‘I love you, Crowley. Whatever you’ve done, whatever you’ve been, whatever the reasons, I love you. There are no conditions, there are no exceptions. And if you ever have any reason to doubt me then I am sorry and I will do better because I will always love you. Always.’

‘Oh,’ said Crowley, sounding a little choked. She began to run her hand through Aziraphale’s hair, twirling a curl around her fingers.

‘How could you ever think I wouldn’t love you?’ Aziraphale asked, looking up at her.

Crowley gave him a slight smile and pulled very lightly at his hair.

‘Really, angel? You’ve loved me openly for a year and that’s meant to cancel out the other six thousand plus?’

It was a fair point even if Aziraphale did not wish to admit it. He liked what she was doing to his hair, the shivers down his spine reminding of something he needed to say.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t…that I can’t…’

Aziraphale cleared his throat, hating the treacherous flush that was rising up his neck. He stopped himself, gathering up the words he had practiced over and over again and laying them out in front of him so all he had to do was read.

‘I’m sorry if not having sex is hurtful for you, I really am. It has nothing to do with you, I promise. I’m not quite sure why I can’t let myself be with you that way. But it’s my problem, not yours, and if you...if you need someone else to give you what I can’t then…’

‘I don’t want anyone else.’

Crowley’s instantaneous and definitive answer was such a relief that Aziraphale felt dizzy. He clung to her, wishing for some of her strength and courage.

‘And, just to be clear, I don’t want you to be with anyone else either,’ she said.

‘Me?’

Aziraphale was astonished. What on earth had made her think that was a possibility? He had loved people, he could not help it, but only as friends, as fellow travellers on a journey. He had never thought of a human in any romantic context, never even considered partnering with anyone in any way, although maybe this was only partly because of his nature, maybe it was also down to having given his heart away to his best friend without even realising he had done so.

‘I’ve never been with anyone else. I would never even consider it.’

‘I know,’ said Crowley, ‘I’m just giving you fair warning.’

‘Warning?’ Aziraphale looked up. ‘Why? What exactly would you do to the poor unfortunate who I looked twice upon?’

Crowley raised an eyebrow and ran the tip of her tongue over her teeth.

‘I would kill them.’

Aziraphale tried to laugh but the sound died in his throat. Crowley may not have possessed the killing urge that came naturally to many demons but that she was capable of it was indisputable, and her tone did not suggest she was joking. Best to change the subject, Aziraphale thought. 

The cotton of Crowley’s dress was so soft against his cheek, it must have been so easy for people that were not him, people who did not put barriers in the way of their own wants, people who took whatever they desired without question, to lift the fabric, rip it even. Aziraphale preferred the inaccessibility of Crowley’s tight jeans, his sharp edges and shaded eyes.

‘Were you ever hurt?’ he asked, ‘Did anyone ever force you?’

Crowley was still stroking his hair, she did not stop even when she said, ‘Yes.’

Aziraphale felt a terrible rage filling him, too big for his corporeal form, too big for his true angelic form, too big for the universe itself to contain.

‘Careful, angel, or you’ll smite me too.’

Aziraphale gathered himself, forcing back the holy light.

‘I appreciate the intent but there’s no need. Many men made the mistake of thinking me powerless and they were hurt in return. Besides, it was all a very long time ago. Those men are doubtless in Hell, and I am here.’

Her fingers brushed the top of Aziraphale’s ear and he had to duck his head to stop her from seeing the longing on his face. Was it wrong to want to kiss her? The idea of seeing Crowley the same way as men who had hurt her made Aziraphale want to climb right out of his skin.

‘What can I do?’ he asked. How could he undo a lifetime of damage? How could he love Crowley the way she deserved without awakening memories she would rather forget?

‘Just love me. However you want to, whatever way you can. No one has ever loved me, angel, and I have loved no one else.’

‘No one?’

It was pathetic to ask, he knew, but Aziraphale was too desperate to care. He wouldn’t even mind if Crowley lied to him, as long as he could believe it.

‘Oh please,’ said Crowley, sounding equal parts fond and exasperated, ‘Who could ever compare to my angel from the Eastern Gate?’

They both remembered then, and they heard the rain fall. Aziraphale recalled his fear that the water coming down from Heaven would be holy, his wing rising without a thought of what God would do if She saw. He remembered Crowley stepping close to him, closer than he had to be to stay dry. Aziraphale had felt so safe even in the company of an enemy. Then he remembered Crowley trying to fight him off earlier, trapped in a nightmare, how he had settled as soon as he had woken in Aziraphale’s arms. Safe from harm.

‘What were you dreaming about before?’

Crowley’s feet were in his lap now and he was caressing her calves, knowing without asking that this was something else only he had done, something only he would ever be allowed to do.

‘Oh, that,’ she said, ‘It happens sometimes when I'm...' 

A phone began to ring, the loud, insistent trilling of the bookshop’s antiquated machine. Aziraphale glanced up at the clock. It had just passed three in the morning, not an unusual time for either one of them to be doing anything at all but certainly odd for anyone else of their acquaintance.

‘Who could that…?’

Crowley sat up, sharply, suddenly laser focused.

‘Answer the phone, angel,’ she said, ‘The baby’s coming.’


	6. A Demon and a Witch

Crowley could not keep still. Aziraphale had attempted to distract her but everything he tried caused her such intense irritation that he had backed off with a book and not attempted to so much as talk to her for the last hour. Which was not, Crowley thought, ideal. Without Aziraphale annoying her, Crowley was left with her thoughts and her thoughts were not being kind.

Newt had said everything was going fine and that they didn’t need to come to the hospital. Anathema had wanted them to know, that was all. Crowley wanted to think it was a good sign that they had not heard anything more for eight hours, she wanted to think about something else and not the very many things that could go wrong in eight, long, screaming hours of pain. Every now and then she glanced up at the ceiling and scowled. And every time, without fail, Aziraphale winced.

‘How can you be okay with this?’ Crowley said, ‘God could have made it easy. She could have made it so humans laid eggs, what’s wrong with eggs?’

Aziraphale calmly turned a page of his book without looking up.

‘I am not arguing with you, Crowley.’

‘Of course not,’ snapped Crowley, ‘It’s my job to question and yours to admonish me for it.’

‘I’m not admonishing, I know you’re worried.’

‘I’m not worried, I’m furious.’

‘Whatever you say, darling.’

Crowley tried to snarl but she might have, accidentally, smiled.

‘Don’t darling me when I’m being fierce.’

It was Aziraphale’s turn to smile as he turned another page.

‘You are terrifying, my dear.’

‘That's right,’ said Crowley. She tried to resume pacing but could not muster the same enthusiasm for it as before. Turning sharply, she made for Aziraphale’s quiet corner and flopped down dramatically on the arm of his chair. It was in no way comfortable but that did not deter her. Aziraphale spared her a single glance before gamely attempting to resume reading.

‘She could be in pain.’

‘I would assume so, it is labour.’

‘She might need an intervention.’

‘There will be doctors and nurses aplenty at her disposal, I’m sure.’

‘She might need _divine_ intervention.’

‘The Almighty is there for anyone who needs Her.’

Crowley snorted at this. After their miraculous escape from Michael, Aziraphale had dived straight into renewed faith with the relief of someone who had just found air after holding their breath too long. It was a faith he wholeheartedly believed Crowley should share but both of them skirted the edges of the issue, unwilling to risk confronting the other with an issue big enough to drive them apart. Still, Crowley could not let things lie entirely.

‘Forgive me for not trusting Her Ineffableness with the safe delivery of our godchild.’

‘I forgive you,’ said Aziraphale, in mock seriousness, finally closing his book and giving Crowley the attention she was not prepared to admit she wanted. Crowley trailed her hand down his arm, wondering just how mad Aziraphale would be if she knocked the book out of his hand and sat on his lap.

‘Sit down there,’ said Aziraphale, ‘I’ll do your hair.’

Crowley was not quick enough to stop the surprise from lighting up her face. Seconds later and she was sitting on the floor between his legs as Aziraphale ran a brush through her hair with the practiced hand of someone who had done it before. A prickle of jealous unease rippled the calm pleasure of it but was easy to ignore.

‘Shall I put it up?’ Aziraphale asked, fingers and brush working together and doing things to Crowley that were probably not intentional.

‘Whatever you like,’ she said, amazed that she was still able to be articulate. Aziraphale gave a little wiggle of delight and began to gather her hair up in his hands.

‘It’s been such a long time since I did this for anyone. A few decades ago, this was a regular feature of my Friday nights. I got quite good at it as I recall. I wonder if I still remember…’

Crowley closed her eyes. She honestly did not care what travesty of a hairstyle Aziraphale was about to inflict on her, the more hideously complex the better if it meant it would take him a long time to get right.

‘So beautiful,’ Aziraphale said, softly, as he worked, ‘So kind. So good.’

The words were warm light, meeting the darkness inside him and accepting it for what it was with no confrontation, just calm, boundless love.

‘Trust me, darling, Anathema will be fine,’ Aziraphale continued, ‘She’s working hard to bring her baby into the world right now and then we’ll get to meet her. You don’t need to do anything but let it happen.’

A sharp tug to her scalp drew Crowley up out of her contentment.

‘Sorry! Out of practice.’

‘S’okay.’

And it was, it was all okay, and Crowley was slipping back into bliss when her phone buzzed in her pocket.

‘Don’t move,’ said Aziraphale when she shifted to reach it, ‘I’m nearly finished. Right, there you go!’

Aziraphale’s expression of pride might have distracted Crowley completely if her phone had not buzzed again. Annoyed, she glanced at the screen and then everything else faded into insignificance. Both messages were from Newt, the first the shortest sentence possible: _She’s here!!!_

The second was a photo, a tiny bundle, more blanket than baby, the merest suggestion of a scrunched up face peeking out from beneath a knitted hat Crowley remembered buying.

‘Angel…’

Her heart was doing something painful and she wanted Aziraphale to make it stop.

‘What is it?’ Aziraphale touched the screen and the photo zoomed in. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean…where did she go?’

Crowley returned the photo to the correct size as a third message came through:

_Anathema is exhausted but she’s asking for you both. Could you come?_

They were in the car within about thirty seconds, Aziraphale fretting over whether or not they should pick up flowers from the florist on the corner. It was ten minutes before Crowley remembered her present form. She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror. Her clothes were more or less the same as Anathema and Newt would be expecting, tight black jeans and a dark T-shirt beneath a black jacket. The way the clothes clung to her was different, and the gold chain around her neck was not something he would wear, but she was reasonably confident that clothing wise she would be unlikely to provoke any notable comment. Her hair, however. Aziraphale had braided it so professionally that it would be a crime to undo his hard work for the sake of making other people more comfortable but this was the kind of situation where you were supposed to put others first. Superficially at least it seemed that Anathema and Newt were on board with keeping company with a demon, but perhaps a gender shifting demon was pushing things a bit too far.

‘Angel, do you think I should change?’

‘Into what?’ Aziraphale asked, before his eyes went wide in mild panic, ‘Is this the kind of occasion one should be donning formal wear?’

He looked down at himself, as if he was not always wearing clothing that could count as formal wear on most occasions.

‘You’re fine,’ said Crowley, feeling strangely sad that she had to have this conversation at all, ‘I was talking about me.’

She indicated her face and hair with a flick of her hand and Aziraphale’s lips form a soft ‘oh’ of comprehension.

‘It’s up to you,' he said, 'But I would be disappointed if you did. Change, I mean. In all honesty, considering what has happened to them today, I very much doubt whether Anathema and Newt will even notice but even if they do, they’re our friends and you are you.’

Crowley tightened her grip on the steering wheel, aware that most people did not have an angel’s appreciation of the spectrum of sexuality but Aziraphale had asked her not to change so she wouldn’t. Let the consequences be what they may.

The hospital was no more pleasant than it had been the last time they had entered it, the sounds and scents overwhelming. Crowley pressed close to Aziraphale, glad when his hand closed around hers. Whenever he asked directions, he was treated with the utmost kindness and respect, not something that was afforded to the rest of the people pressing in to ask about relatives and friends. If Aziraphale noticed the discrepancy, he said nothing but Crowley did observe several nurses being considerably nicer to the next in line after their dealings with Mr Fell.

They were told Ms Device was in a private room. Aziraphale took this news cheerfully, remarking to Crowley that it was likely to be more pleasant than the ward she had been on last time, but Crowley was not so sure it was a cause for celebration. Sure enough, when they reached the room, it was to find a startling number of medical personnel hurrying in and out. Aziraphale stopped one of them and though they intended to brush him off, one look at his face and they were his.

‘What’s going on? Is Anathema alright?’

‘Nothing to worry about,’ said the nurse, who looked like he did nothing else but worry from the start of his shift to the end of it, ‘She lost quite a lot of blood during delivery so we’re setting up a transfusion. Baby is a bit cold too so we’re…’

Crowley did not stay to listen to any more. Barging past anyone in her way, she entered the room. Anathema, looking weaker than anyone had the right to look and still be fighting, was trying to push the nearest nurse away.

‘Leave me alone,’ she was saying, her words brittle and high pitched, almost hysterical, ‘Just go away!’ 

‘Now, don’t be silly,’ said the nurse, attempting to pin Anathema to the bed, ‘You can’t sleep yet, you haven’t fed your baby.’

The baby in question was held awkwardly in Newt’s arms, tiny limbs flailing as a thin, wailing cry filled the room, ignored by all, as he tried to get between the nurse and his partner.

‘Could we just have a moment?’ he was saying, ‘I don’t think she understands what’s going on and neither do I.’

Crowley took in this tableaux of human misery for a few more seconds before she stepped forwards.

‘Enough,’ she said to the nurse who whipped round, affronted.

‘I am doing my job!’

Crowley slowly removed her glasses, holding the nurse’s gaze the whole time.

‘I suggest you do it somewhere else,’ she said, with the kind of mild threatening tone she had not used in far too long. The nurse baulked, her rubber soled shoes squeaking as she rushed out of the room. The remaining staff in the room were quick to follow, all of them beating a hasty retreat.

‘Crowley, I’m not sure that was wise,’ Aziraphale began but Crowley was focused on Anathema. Having worked pretty much everywhere pain and misery lurked over the course of thousands of years, she had seen plenty of women post labour. Wrung out and exhausted was the best case scenario, pale and, well, dead was the worst. Anathema was somewhere between the two, and Crowley found herself surprised at how little had changed through time. 

‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she said, reaching for her and trying to smile. Crowley, a little surprised, allowed Anathema to take her hand which she squeezed with the little strength she had left. ‘They won’t bully us now you’re here.’

Crowley said nothing, she did not need to, Anathema's wishes were clear enough. In Newt’s arms, the baby squirmed, her cries changing pitch.

‘She won’t eat,’ said Newt, in response to Crowley’s silent enquiry, ‘They’ve been trying to get her to latch on for…’ He tried to come up with a measure of time but failed, the boy was barely holding it together. ‘I think we need to go out and get some bottles or something but the nurses keep telling Anathema that she needs to keep trying.’

Crowley looked at Anathema, saw the way she let her gaze roll away from the baby in Newt’s arms. The only thing she needed was sleep.

‘Aziraphale, find a competent doctor. Tell them Anathema needs a transfusion now and then she is to be left alone. Anathema, close your eyes, let everything go. And Newt, give the baby to me.’

Newt flashed the briefest of glances towards Anathema but she had not hesitated to follow her instructions, her head falling back against her pillow. Crowley waited, the baby’s cries plucking the strings of deep desires that she usually tried very hard not to acknowledge, secrets she did not want anyone, not even Aziraphale, to know. She had the wicked impulse to snatch the baby from her father’s arms but she suppressed it.

‘You need rest too,’ she said and Newt, recognising the truth of this, finally surrendered the baby into Crowley’s arms. 

She was lighter than air, a bubble of nothing containing the essence of everything. Crowley looked down at her face, bright red from the effort of crying, tiny fists clenched in anger at the indignity of being born and not being understood. All the torn pieces of Crowley’s heart began to ache. She was not aware of Aziraphale and Newt leaving the room, was barely conscious of the miracle she performed to produce a chair, sitting down upon it as if it had always been there waiting for the two of them. The baby did not want to be cradled, she wanted to feel surrounded, so Crowley laid her against her shoulder and began to rub circles on her back. Her cries began to lessen almost immediately and after a few minutes she was asleep.

‘How did you do that?’

Anathema was watching her, her dark hair messy around her face. She was not wearing her glasses and was squinting as a result.

‘I’ve had a lot of practice,’ said Crowley, not really wanting to get into the details but figuring she might as well own up to some of the truth, if only to convince Anathema that she was not using her powers.

‘Are you sure you’re a demon?’ Anathema asked. Crowley looked over, looking at people was usually more than enough to convince them of what she was, the eyes did not lie, but Anathema only smiled in a sleepy, dreamlike way.

‘Witches are supposed to be evil too,’ she said, ‘Did you know that I’m a witch?’

The blood loss was starting to take its toll. Crowley had to hope Aziraphale found a doctor before she was tempted to do any healing of her own.

‘Does that make my child a witch? A demon and a witch.’

Anathema began to laugh but the sound was chilling.

‘Do you want me to leave?’ Crowley asked. 

It was so hard to push the words out. She had only just sat down with the baby and if Anathema was going to get all no-demons-around-my-kid so soon then Crowley did not think she would be able to pull herself out of the resulting black hole of a void until the kid had finished with their time on Earth.

‘Leave?’ said Anathema, ‘No, you’re never allowed to leave. We need you. I don’t have any idea how to look after a baby.’

Crowley took a shaky breath in and let it out slowly. Warlock had needed her too.

‘You’ll learn,’ she said, the quick drum beat of the baby’s heart sounding right next to her own. 

A doctor came, a kind one, with a soft voice and a warm, weary smile. Anathema let him do what he needed to do without resistance or complaint. Newt returned and then disappeared again. Anathema fell asleep. Aziraphale came to say goodbye, telling Crowley that he was taking Newt home and would she mind staying with Anathema? Crowley was not sure she even answered. She was dimly aware of a kiss, Aziraphale’s lips touching her forehead softly, and then all was quiet once more. 

Baby Girl Device, as her hospital tag read, snuffled in her sleep, opening and closing her tiny starfish hands. Her perfect little nose, the constellation of moles on the back of her neck, her wisps of dark hair. Crowley took it all in. There were so many reasons to guard her heart but, as Anathema and her child slept on, Crowley could not remember any of them. She had never been any good at not falling in love.


	7. Lover's Tiff

Despite his limited progress in therapy, Aziraphale had to admire Susanna’s ability to absorb and cope with all the information he threw at her. Week after week, she guided him through their sessions with the patience of, well, a saint. Aziraphale had certainly seen less worthy souls be canonized. She had rolled with the concept of Crowley’s gender fluidity, hardly dwelling on it at all.

‘If it’s not a problem for you then it’s not something we really need to discuss at length,’ she had said. And it was not a problem so they moved on.

Even when Aziraphale brought up the subject of Crowley’s traumatic sexual history, which he had told himself he would not to do and found himself admitting anyway, Susanna had not looked shocked or appalled, instead she had set her pen down, looked at him firmly and said, ‘And now we’re getting somewhere.’

Aziraphale had not enjoyed telling her about that particular conversation, nor had he appreciated Susanna referring to it in every subsequent session they had.

‘I understand that it’s difficult for you,’ she said when he tried to avoid the subject, ‘But we need to work together so that you are able to move through your painful emotions into acceptance. The fact that neither you nor Crowley have brought this up again with each other concerns me.’

The insistence on calling Crowley by his first name had fallen by the wayside ever since the gender revelations. Susanna had even apologised.

‘There’s been a lot going on,’ Aziraphale said, mustering his only defence, ‘We’re busy.’

Crowley was busy. Busy with the baby. Busy pretending that he did not think about her every minute of every day. Busy acting like he was not depressed. Busy busy busy.

‘There’s been a big change in your lives recently.’

‘Not our lives,’ said Aziraphale, quickly, though it felt that way.

Susanna raised an eyebrow.

‘Go on,’ she said.

Aziraphale twisted his pinky ring around his finger. He thought of Crowley with baby Persephone asleep on his chest. The way he jumped whenever his phone went off, hoping it would be Anathema, hoping there was a problem he could fix. His expression of soft adoration whenever he looked at the baby that became something closer to pain whenever he thought no one was watching. How he would accept any invitation from Anathema without question but would find a reason not to go for dinner when Aziraphale asked. How he spent so much of their time together asleep, the nightmares shaking the walls. How sometimes, after Aziraphale had kissed him awake, drawing him back, Crowley would avoid looking at him, trying to hide what Aziraphale had already seen, that it was not love in his eyes but fear.

And, oh, how quickly things turned if Aziraphale tried to say anything.

‘You don’t have to go,’ he had said one evening when Crowley had stopped kissing him to answer his phone. He’d tried to reach out to him but Crowley had pulled away and the expression on his face then, just for a moment, had been full of such outraged hostility that Aziraphale had not said another word.

Worse still had happened a few days later when they had been driving back from seeing Persephone together. Having spent the whole afternoon with her, Aziraphale learning more than he had ever desired to know about a baby’s toileting habits, he had been revelling in the quiet, when he said, without thinking, ‘I’m glad she’s not ours.’

The Bentley had swerved so violently that Aziraphale had yelped.

‘Crowley, what…?’

But Crowley’s only explanation was to cut across two lanes of traffic and park, at an impossibly illegal angle, getting out of the car and slamming the door so hard that the Bentley shook in terror. When he returned a few minutes later, Aziraphale was still trying to remember how to breathe. He heard the clink of bottles as something heavy was deposited into the trunk and then they were on their way again. Crowley had then spent the next twenty four hours drinking everything he had bought, never once indicating that he would appreciate company. 

Aziraphale realised he should not be thinking these thoughts, and he definitely should not say them out loud, but Susanna was waiting. She had been so understanding with everything else, maybe she could help him find a way through this. 

‘I think Crowley wants to have a baby,’ he said, a hot pain building behind his eyes, ‘We both know that’s not possible but I think…I think he might want a baby more than he wants me.’

Aziraphale had hoped, rather selfishly, that Crowley would be in bed when he got home. Processing the session’s revelations would take some time and he would have appreciated a night to himself but when Aziraphale entered the bookshop, he saw lights on in the back.

‘Crowley?’

Aziraphale was not surprised to receive no answer, the television was on so loud that he could barely hear himself think. It was one of those quiz shows where the host pretended to know everything but was really reading off a card and the panel were made to feel foolish because they did not know obscure facts about British history or politics or quantum physics. It was the kind of programme Aziraphale enjoyed while pretending not to, the enjoyment all the sweeter if Crowley was sitting next to him getting increasingly and audibly annoyed at the incorrect answers.

‘Crowley?’

In spite of the rollercoaster of emotions going on inside him, Aziraphale entered the room smiling only to find Newton sprawled on the sofa. He was fast asleep, possibly drooling, the remote control still clutched to his chest.

On the table, on top of Aziraphale’s mobile phone, was a note which read ‘back soon’ in Crowley’s slanting handwriting.

Aziraphale sighed, picked up his phone and checked for messages. None. Crowley probably assumed there wasn’t any point in trying it any more. Screwing up his face in concentration, Aziraphale tried to remember how to send a message. After a few failed attempts and one awkward mistaken call to Madame Tracy, Aziraphale managed to send the following:

_Why is Newt here? I miss you. _

The reply came almost instantly.

**Missing me, angel? Then where’s my kiss? What’s Newt doing?**

_He’s sleeping. And yes, I miss you. How do I kiss?_

**Good. He whines more than the baby X**

_What does X mean?_

**It’s a kiss.**

_Just one? _

**How many did you want? **

Come back home and find out.

**Tease. Home soon. I promise X**

Crowley’s definition of soon was fifty one minutes. Aziraphale’s heart leapt the instant he heard the front door open. He had turned the television off and Newt was now snoring, limbs draped over the sofa. When Crowley appeared in the doorway, the sight of him in his long black coat made Aziraphale want to fall to his knees. Instead he arranged his face into an expression of calm curiosity ready for whatever story he was about to hear.

‘What happened?’

‘Lover’s tiff,’ said Crowley, casting a vaguely disgusted eye over Newt, ‘Anathema wanted him out of sight for a bit.’

‘I thought it best to leave him. He’ll be out all night.’

‘Smart,’ said Crowley, shedding his coat and casting it carelessly aside.

‘I didn’t…’ Aziraphale began, intending to explain that he had performed no miracles and was only making an educated guess but Crowley was walking towards him, and the movement of his hips made it so hard to hold onto coherent thoughts.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘About those kisses.’

‘We can’t!’ Aziraphale protested, scandalised, ‘We have a guest.’

‘Who is in our house, where we can do whatever we like whenever we want to,’ said Crowley, leaning in close. He smelt of cold, October air tinged with smoke. He looked like every temptation Aziraphale had ever wanted to give in to and he knew it. Aziraphale waited to be kissed but Crowley stayed where he was, an inch from him, holding his gaze in a way he had not done for months.

‘So,’ he said, ‘What do you wanna do, angel?’

Aziraphale was up and kissing him so fast that Crowley laughed. He tasted that laugh, the warm happiness of it working on him even more effectively than Crowley’s hands in his hair.

‘Upstairs,’ one of them said and the other said, ‘Nn-kay.’

And it was easy, and it was blissful, and Aziraphale wanted it to go on forever. As close as they were, he wanted closer, pulling Crowley towards him, tangling their legs together, pressing body against body until Crowley let out a hiss, long and low, longing mixed with pain.

‘Want to stop?’ Aziraphale asked, between kisses. Crowley tried to pull back a little but Aziraphale held him tight, not ready to let go. Nor was he ready to admit that he liked seeing Crowley like this, a little distressed, his eyes unfocused, his touch faltering as his desire fought a battle with his control. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t kind, and Aziraphale would feel guilty about it the moment they stopped, but for a few more glorious moments he let himself torment Crowley still further, sliding his tongue deeper into his mouth, pressing his thigh right between Crowley’s legs until he groaned. Oh, he liked that sound, liked being the one who had caused it, and suddenly Aziraphale had an idea.

‘Can I try something?’

Crowley looked as if he was somewhere between wanting to whimper and pass out but he nodded mutely. Aziraphale kissed him more softly, wondering if he had the nerve to go through with this. Susanna’s voice was loud and stern in his head, telling him not to proceed until he had found the words to explain what he wanted but maybe he did not need words. Crowley was squirming slightly, trying to escape the torturous friction Aziraphale was inflicting upon him. Watching him bite down hard on his lip, Aziraphale rather suspected Crowley was trying not to hiss again. Aziraphale let his hand move of its accord, travelling downwards until it was pressed against the bulge in Crowley's tight jeans. 

‘Aziraphale, don’t…’

‘Am I doing it wrong?’

Crowley shook his head but he had this hand on Aziraphale’s now, trying to stop him. He laid his forehead on his shoulder and breathed heavily for a minute before he was able to speak.

‘Angel, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, I really do…’

Aziraphale mistook this for encouragement and tried to move his hand but Crowley’s grip tightened painfully around his wrist.

‘Believe me,’ Crowley said, hoarsely, ‘If I thought this is what you wanted, I would not hesitate.’ Slowly he pulled Aziraphale’s hand away. ‘We can keep doing things your way. I’m good with that. For everything else, I can take care of myself.’

There was the narrowest of windows in which Aziraphale could have convinced him that he did want this, but by the time he had mastered the flush of bafflement and shame, that window had already passed and both of them were lying on their backs next to each other. Aziraphale stared up at the ceiling, wondering what he could have done differently. He wanted to look over and see whether he could divine anything of Crowley’s feelings from his expression but he did not dare. He had messed up, he knew it. His motivations were askew, his mind and heart confused by his longings and the distance between them but surely Crowley could not sense that. And if Crowley wanted him, truly wanted him the way Aziraphale had always assumed, surely he would not have wanted to stop. It was that prickle of doubt that made him ask the question, the hurt inside him wanting something on which to feed.

‘Crowley?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Do you think we should go away for a while?’

‘Away?’

‘Like a holiday, like humans do.’ Aziraphale kept his tone light, betraying none of his ulterior motives. ‘It’s been so long since I’ve been to Italy. Or we could try somewhere we’ve never been together, I don’t recall ever bumping into you in Japan.’

‘We can’t go away.’

‘Why not?’

Aziraphale kept his gaze focused on the ceiling. He wanted Crowley to come out and say it, to admit what they both knew to be true, and then maybe they could actually talk to each other about what was really going on. They were too well practiced at holding back and keeping secrets, neither one of them really knowing how to open up to the other.

As the silence stretched on, however, Aziraphale felt his conviction begin to falter and sense return. His wish to provoke an argument was short-sighted and cruel, especially when things were so strained between them already. He was almost ready to reach out and steer them away from confrontation when Crowley’s phone beeped. The light from the screen illuminated the dark room as Crowley read the message. There was no need to ask who it was from.

‘What does she want?’ Aziraphale asked.

‘Just saying thank you.’ 

‘For what?’

‘For this evening, for giving Newt a place to sleep and her some time to think.’

‘Ah.’

The phone beeped again.

‘She wants me to go round tomorrow.’

Something bitter and unpleasant began to writhe in Aziraphale’s stomach.

‘You could say no.’

‘Is that what you want me to say?’

What Aziraphale wanted was to stop. He wanted to go back and prevent himself from starting the conversation in the first place. He wanted to stop the snowballing thoughts that were coming to him, driving him on.

‘All I want,’ he said, in his most reasonable, even tone, ‘Is for you to do what’s best for you.’

‘And what might that be?’ Crowley replied, equally carefully. 

It was the kind of question that required a very delicate answer or, better yet, no answer at all but Aziraphale had his opening now and he was going to take it.

‘She’s making you feel worse.’

‘What? Who?’

‘Persephone,’ said Aziraphale, building up steam and heading straight for the cliff ahead, ‘The more time you spend with her, the worse you feel. All your energy is going into looking after her and when you’re away from her you can barely function. It’s not good for you, Crowley. It’s better to accept things as they are and not get so invested. At least with Warlock you maintained some professional distance but with…’

Crowley’s phone, now lying on the bed between them, beeped again. He made no move to pick it up.

‘Are you going to answer it?’

‘No.’

‘It’s fine if you do.’

‘Not while you’re angry,’ said Crowley, ‘Go ahead, say your piece.’

‘I don’t know what you mean, I’m not in the least bit angry,’ said Aziraphale, punching out the words, ‘I’m just trying to get you to realise what’s happening. I’ve seen it before. You get too attached, and it hurts you. The truth of the matter is no matter how much time you spend with her, no matter how much you love her, Persephone will never be yours. You’re a demon, Crowley. You can’t have a child any more than I can, and the sooner you realise that the better.’

There was no feeling of victory, not even so much as a moment of triumph or vindication, only the hollow ache of having made a very big mistake. Aziraphale lay absolutely still, not even daring to turn his head, feeling the silence pressing into him from all sides. Beside him, Crowley was radiating an unfamiliar heat but Aziraphale would rather have burned alive than admit he was even the slightest bit uncomfortable.

When Crowley finally spoke, his voice was ash and shadow. 

‘Demon Crowley. Not something I’m likely to forget, is it? But thank you as ever for the reminder. Hell and Heaven and Earth forbid I try to overcome the limitations of my damnation. Really, angel, you could give Hell some tips. They never reminded me of what I am half as much as you feel compelled to do.

‘And yes, you’re right, I won’t ever have a child of my own. Nor should I. Even wanting one is ludicrous. I knew you’d think so too. I hoped you might try a bit harder to understand but obviously I was wrong. Seems to be my problem all round, doesn’t it? Wanting things I can’t have. Can’t even blame Hell for that.’

‘Crowley…’

‘You don’t need to say it, I know you’re sorry. And I know I’ve hurt you too, I know you wish that you could banish the darkness and make me into the angel I once was because you can’t forget what I am for even a moment, can you?’

‘Crowley, I never should have…’

But Crowley was up on his feet now, his eyes flashing in the gloom. Aziraphale watched him pace. He should have been panicking but instead he felt numb, his chest ice cold even as the temperature of the room began to rise.

‘It’s fine,’ Crowley said, sounding less like himself with every word, ‘What damage can a few more of your words do? I’m just a demon, after all. I’m used to pain, I deserve it. Shouldn’t get attached, shouldn’t love. What right do I have to kindness or understanding from you or anyone else?’

‘Crowley, that’s not…’

‘But it is, isn’t it?’ Crowley hissed, ‘That is what you meant. Know your place, Crowley. Stop wanting, Crowley. Stop believing you can have anything more, anything _good_.’

He raised one hand to his head, wincing in pain. The room was growing hotter by the second and when Crowley opened his eyes again they were glowing red. Aziraphale’s shock kept him where he was when he should have closed the gap between them, should have thrown himself at Crowley's feet and pleaded for forgiveness. 

‘You need to leave,’ said Crowley.

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Crowley’s wings sprang out of nowhere, darkest black.

‘_Get. Out_.’

The temperature was rising still further, Crowley’s eyes burning. He was losing control of his powers, Aziraphale was not even sure how hard he was fighting to contain them. If it had been the two of them, Aziraphale might have stayed, matching power with power but the moment he remembered Newt downstairs he knew he had no choice. 

Without another word, Aziraphale left the bedroom, shutting the door on Crowley’s inferno of rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read this far, I am so grateful to you all and I love hearing from you. 
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr @marbledwings


	8. The End of Everything

The thing about Hell, the absolute worst fucking thing, was how once you’d been there, even once they were done torturing the goodness and the light out of you and they let you go about your demonic business, it never went away. Even if you managed to escape, Hell was still right there, in your bloodstream, behind your eyes, inside your every thought, turning and twisting and sharpening every single part of you so that it hurt and it hurt and it hurt and it never, ever stopped. 

Crowley wanted it to stop. He wanted to dig out all the pieces of Hell inside them until there was nothing left for the void to feed on. But he _was_ Hell, there was no removing it, no escaping it, and no one could save him from it.

Aziraphale tried. He said sorry so many times that the words lost all meaning, becoming just another hiss in the background. Crowley was numb to his apologies, to his concern, to all the things he would have done anything for under ordinary circumstances. Aziraphale blamed himself, it was the only reason he was still trying, but he was wasting his time. He was light, and light did not belong anywhere near him. 

Inside his head, babies cried, children screamed and Crowley knew that Aziraphale was right. He had no business getting attached to humans, especially not the small ones with their malleable minds and their easily influenced hearts. Crowley had always tried to steer clear of causing them damage when Hell was giving him orders but apparently he was unable to make logical or morally sound choices when left to his own devices. He had allowed himself to believe that it could be different this time, that it would not end the way it always did, with pain and grief and misery. He had chosen to overlook the many, many warning signs. He had done this to himself. 

It had been bad enough with Warlock and he’d always known that would be temporary. Crowley was never supposed to be a risk to him, they’d thought he was the bloody Antichrist for Satan’s sake. Crowley would never have gone near him otherwise. Being the Destroyer of Worlds should have given the boy more than enough protection against demonic influence being that he’d eventually grow up to rule them all. Finding out he was a regular kid had fucked Crowley up, no doubt about it. Leaving him had fucked him up worse but Crowley had been getting over it. He’d been trying.

And then Persephone. If Crowley had not saved her life. If he had not seen her face before her eyes had even opened. If he could have stayed well clear of the whole situation like he had tried to, maybe then he could have kept the box inside him full of all the delusional, idiotic desires of his heart locked up tight.

_‘The truth of the matter is no matter how much time you spend with her, no matter how much you love her, Persephone will never be yours.’ _

Crowley had not been trying to take Persephone away from her parents, he would never do that. Anathema wanted him to help, she had said so over and over again. Maybe Newt was a little threatened, and maybe Crowley chose not to dwell on this. Maybe, after overhearing Newt arguing with Anathema behind a closed door about how often he was there, maybe then Crowley went home and got so drunk that the world had tilted on its axis, threatening to tip him off into the endless black. It wasn't the best way to handle the situation, but arguably it wasn't the worst either. 

And if Crowley sometimes pretended Persephone was his, just to himself, just for a little while when it was the two of them alone, then that was harmless, right? Harmless to everyone but him anyway. No one needed to know.

Except Aziraphale had known, and he had stepped between innocence and evil because that’s what angels did. They thwarted, they protected, they shone and glowed and went home to congratulate themselves on having made the world a better place. They said things like, ‘_You get too attached, Crowley' _with voices woven of wisdom and ice-cold righteousness. 

How was he supposed to detach? How did he stop loving Persephone? Now that he knew the weight of her in his arms, now that he’d memorised the colour of her eyes in every light, now that the smell of her skin was imprinted on his soul. If Crowley was capable of shutting out love, he would have figured out a way to do it by now. He’d spent entire millennia trying not to love Aziraphale only to run into him after a separation of two hundred years and be undone by a single look, an angelic smile.

And now that angel had proof that Crowley was dangerous. He had lost control of his powers and Aziraphale had seen, Aziraphale who might tell Newt or Anathema at any time if he had not done so already. And even if Aziraphale did not tell them, Crowley knew what he was and what he might have done. Any pretence that he belonged anywhere near Persephone was well and truly shattered. Crowley could not lie to himself any more, not now Aziraphale knew. Aziraphale who always tried to see the best in him and had walked away from him at his worst. 

Crowley was made wrong, that was the problem. He was living proof that the Almighty was making mistakes way back before humanity got a look in. She’d given up on him, kicked him out so She could concentrate on the ones She got right. It was only a matter of time before Aziraphale did the same thing. For all his talk of forever, Crowley knew full well there was no such thing. Not when it came to him.

Weeks slipped by. Crowley did not attempt to keep track. He hated the returning daylight each morning, reminding him that there was a world out there. It would have been better to stay asleep, the way he would have done had he been alone, but Aziraphale had established a routine of coming in to disturb him just after seven. An angelic alarm clock that would not be deterred.

‘Good morning.’

Aziraphale’s breakfast was on a tray which he carefully balanced on the bedside table. One cup of tea, one mug of coffee, always two plates of whatever he was in the mood for. Toast and marmalade today. Crowley’s stomach turned over. Burying his face in the duvet, he tried to will Aziraphale and his food out of the room.

‘How did you sleep?’

They had not touched each other since the night Newt had slept downstairs, the night of Aziraphale’s razor words and Crowley’s giving up. When Aziraphale sat on the bed, he perched right on the edge, and Crowley’s heart broke a little more.

‘Not much to report today,’ Aziraphale said, having taken to summarising the day’s news headlines for no better reason than it gave him something to say, ‘Same old political nonsense, rumour is there’ll be a general election in the next few months. I do wonder sometimes whether we ought to be getting more involved with it all.’

On and on he rambled, saying nothing of any importance. Crowley let his mind drift on the current of Aziraphale’s voice. He could not remember the last time he had used his own.

‘Anathema is going to bring Persephone round later. She said she would like to see you, if you feel up to it.’ 

Crowley concentrated very hard on keeping his mind blank.

‘I told her it was unlikely,’ said Aziraphale, the sadness he tried to hide creeping in, ‘But if you do want to see her, I’m sure she’d be delighted. You should see Persephone now, so alert. I’ve got pictures.’

There was a pause in which Aziraphale’s hope shone bright and unwelcome in the stale air. Then he sighed.

‘Oh Crowley,’ he said, ‘I do so wish I knew what to do.’

Crowley felt his fingers flutter somewhere nearby but Aziraphale did not touch him.

‘I am sorry, Crowley. If I only knew how to show you how sorry I am. I wish I wasn’t so bad at all of this. I know you want to be left alone and that I’m being selfish. I’m sorry for that too.’

His hand came to rest on the bed between them. Even with his eyes closed, Crowley could feel its proximity. It seemed impossible that there had been a time when he had been allowed to hold that hand.

'I miss you such an awful lot, my darling. Just know that I am here loving you, always.’

When Aziraphale stood, Crowley felt something tear inside him. Aziraphale’s energy swirled in the room for the next few hours, making it impossible to sleep, but eventually a numbing calm descended once more. Aziraphale would give up soon. He would leave or tell Crowley to and that would be that, the end of everything. This thought tormented Crowley like nothing else, and though he knew he was simply speeding up the inevitable, he could not resist slipping back into the abyss. The oblivion of sleep, before the nightmares kicked in, was the only solace he had left.

* * *

Susanna smiled at him in welcome but Aziraphale was unable to return the gesture. He felt like he might never smile again. Taking a seat on the sofa as usual, he stared morosely at the framed photo of Paris, memories and dreams hiding in the shadows to taunt him. Everything seemed so grey these days.

‘How have things been this week?’ Susanna asked though she must have read the answer already on his face.

‘He’s no better,’ said Aziraphale without preamble. _I broke him_.

‘And you still blame yourself?’

‘It’s my fault.’

He had told her all about their disastrous confrontation, admitting it all freely. It had been like excising himself of poison. So much easier in the privacy of Susanna’s consultation room than it had been to explain to a hurt and bewildered Anathema. He’d only been able to tell her a very abridged, and far too kind to himself, version of events but Susanna knew as much of the truth as it was safe to tell.

‘You didn’t cause Crowley’s depression.’

This was something she said at least once each session.

‘I made it worse,’ said Aziraphale with absolute conviction, ‘All those terrible things I said…’

‘You didn’t help,’ Susanna acknowledged, ‘But we all touch nerves without meaning to, and sometimes we do mean it and that’s hard to bear. None of us are perfect, and you are helping now.’

‘How?’

Aziraphale did not feel as if he was helping at all. Every time he entered the bedroom, Aziraphale felt around for a trace of the love that had been lighting him up ever since Crowley had moved in but there was nothing. Either Crowley was not capable of feeling it while he was so down or it was no longer there. Aziraphale was terrified to find out which it was but he feared the worst.

‘Tell me,’ said Susanna, ‘Is there somewhere else Crowley could go if he wanted to? Someone else he could stay with?’

Aziraphale’s heart gave a horrid lurch.

‘I don’t want him to go.’

‘That’s not what I’m saying. I’m asking if he has a choice.’

Aziraphale supposed the answer was yes. Crowley was perfectly capable of removing himself to the other side of the world or even the galaxy if he so chose.

‘If he has a choice,’ Susanna went on, ‘Then is it safe to assume he is choosing to stay with you?’

Aziraphale tried to come up with a convincing argument to refute this but failed.

‘He won’t speak to me,’ he said, staring down at his hands. 

‘That must be very hurtful.’

‘I’ve hurt him far worse,’ said Aziraphale, quickly, not wishing to try and claim that his pain was the greater.

‘Does anyone win in that competition?’ Susanna asked, gently, ‘It’s enough to acknowledge your own feelings and his without comparison. It’s completely natural and normal for you to hurt when you see the person you love most in such pain.’

‘How do I make him better?’ Aziraphale asked, a question he had returned to again and again. There had to be something he could do, something he hadn’t tried. What if he spirited them both away to somewhere they’d never been? Or somewhere that was full of only good memories? What if he took Crowley to the stars? They did not have to be bound to their Earthly forms. This was not something he could very well ask his therapist for advice on, however.

‘We could take a trip,’ he said, feeling the anti-climax of his words the moment they hit his ear, ‘A change of scene...a break in routine…’

‘It sounds like you’re having trouble convincing yourself.’

Aziraphale felt a prickle of annoyance. Sometimes it was incredibly irksome to be made to feel a fool by a human who had only benefited from the wisdom of a few score years.

‘Well, I’m not planning on giving up,’ he said.

‘Of course not,’ said Susanna, ‘And things will change, they always do.’

‘So, her advice was to do nothing?’

On the other end of the phone, Anathema sounded decidedly unimpressed. Aziraphale fidgeted on the spot, glancing up at the ceiling.

‘She said I shouldn’t try and implement any big changes.’

‘And what do you think?’

Aziraphale tapped out an agitated rhythm on the surface of the table before him.

‘I don’t know what I’m doing. I'm getting it all wrong.' 

There was something else he wanted to say, something he was desperate to confess if only so he could hear the adamant denial._ I don’t want Crowley to leave me_.

‘Oh, this is ridiculous,’ said Anathema with all the exasperation of an exhausted mother, ‘I’m coming over.’

‘He won’t see you.’

‘I won’t even go upstairs,’ said Anathema, ‘Trust me, this is going to work.’

It was not long before Aziraphale was severely regretting his trust and doubting his own judgement. Anathema had indeed come over, along with approximately half the contents of her flat. The bookshop now had a baby department complete with nappy bin, changing mat, moses basket, baby bath and an assortment of loud and colourful toys. Persephone, who had been asleep in her car seat while Anathema had issued a barrage of complicated instructions about milk temperature and various creams, was now very much awake and screaming at the top of her lungs.

‘You’re not actually going to leave her here, are you?’ Aziraphale asked as Anathema backed her way towards the door, blowing air kisses towards her child.

‘Sure I am, I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘But…’

‘Bye!’

Twenty three interminably long minutes later and Aziraphale had come to one very firm conclusion; Anathema really was a witch. He had been bouncing Persephone on his knee for what felt like eternity but there had been no discernible decrease in the pitch of the screaming. It was incredible how such a small human could make so much noise.

She was probably hungry. Anathema had left a bulging bag of bottles and formula somewhere. The process of making up her bottle took far longer than Aziraphale had anticipated. Bound as he was by his promise to Crowley that they would not perform miracles around the child unless absolutely necessary, Aziraphale struggled to remember what Anathema had said about sterilising everything. Had she done that bit already? Was there a step he’d missed? Persephone was now purple in the face with rage, her toothless mouth open in a scream that died away every few seconds as she fought for breath. Warlock had never made such a sound, Aziraphale was sure of it. Granted he had been a little older but still, maybe Crowley was right, maybe there was something demonic about this one.

At last, the milk was cool enough to give to her. For a torturous minute, it seemed as if Persephone was not going to take it and then, thank the good Lord, the noise stopped and she started to drink. Aziraphale settled her more comfortably on his lap, watching her little hands grasping the bottle as if she was trying to hold it herself. Once his head stopped ringing from the echoes of her cries, it was really quite pleasant, sitting there holding her steady, feeling the weight of her warm little body as she drained the bottle. Until, alarmingly fast, before Aziraphale was ready, she was sucking on air.

‘Oh now, enough of that,’ he said, pulling the bottle from her mouth. He might as well have pulled the pin from a hand grenade.

Aziraphale tried everything he could think of to calm Persephone down. He heated another bottle, checked the nappy situation repeatedly, tried to distract her with a rattle shaped like a bunny rabbit. When none of that worked, he called Anathema and then Newt and then Anathema again who sent him straight to voicemail. He sang an entire celestial harmony from start to finish and then, when it seemed like the only thing left to do was burst into tears himself, only then did Aziraphale go upstairs.

Incredibly, Crowley was still fast asleep or at least doing a very good job of pretending to be. Aziraphale had been avoiding touching him, unsure whether it would be welcomed or not, and with Persephone in his arms his options on that score were severely limited anyway. Frustratingly, just when he needed her to kick it up a gear, her crying had subsided into a kind of silent scream where her mouth opened and her face went red but no real sound emerged. She looked like she was seconds from asphyxiating.

‘Crowley, could you wake up? I really need your help.’

Crowley twitched but otherwise remained blissfully ignorant of Aziraphale’s distress.

‘Crowley?’

Aziraphale tried to nudge the bed with his knee which did absolutely nothing. He was beginning to suspect that Crowley was just letting him stew in his misery when Persephone gave out the most heart wrenching cry yet, a howl that might have come straight from Hell itself. Crowley sat bolt upright, his eyes wild with fear. He took in Aziraphale first then Persephone, staring at them both as if they were part of the nightmare he had just been torn from.

‘She won’t stop crying,’ said Aziraphale, without giving Crowley so much as a moment to acclimatise, ‘Please Crowley, she won’t stop and I don’t know what else to do.’

Crowley stared at him unblinkingly for several long seconds and then, to Aziraphale’s profound relief, he held his hands out for the baby. Aziraphale practically threw Persephone into his arms, where she squirmed, tears rolling down each cheek. Crowley looked down at her, his expression utterly blank. Aziraphale watched him, wondering if it was safe to have him assume responsibility for a baby even under supervision when Crowley suddenly held Persephone away from him. Alarmed, Aziraphale moved close enough to take her back, meaning he was in the direct firing line as Persephone hiccupped, coughed and then vomited copiously over everything within reach. 


	9. While Terror Sleeps

Persephone was wrapped in her rainbow blanket, fast asleep in her moses basket. Her lips were moving in a sucking motion which was unnerving Aziraphale slightly but Crowley, who was closer to her, did not seem to think it was any cause for alarm. He was dressed in a fresh pair of pyjamas with a blanket round his shoulders. Aziraphale had turned the heating up but Crowley was still shivering. He did not look well but he was up, and he had saved the day, responding to Persephone’s unintelligible cries as if she was making perfectly reasonable demands. He had not smiled, he had not so much as spoken one single word to her or to Aziraphale but he had acted when they had needed him to and Persephone, recognising that she was in the hands of someone far more competent, had ceased her post-purge wailing and allowed herself to be rocked to sleep.

Aziraphale had said thank you a dozen times already and he intended to do so many more times, but after the cessation of Persephone’s screeching the silence was heavenly. Only Heaven did not also come with cocoa which Aziraphale certainly needed after surviving this ordeal. He looked over at Crowley, the odds of him accepting were vanishingly small so Aziraphale did not ask and simply carried the steaming black mug over, pressing it into his hands.

‘You look cold.’

Crowley did not look at him but his fingers curled around the mug and Aziraphale considered that at least a partial victory.

‘If you wanted to go back upstairs, that would be fine. I’m sure I can manage if she wakes.’

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

‘Alright,’ said Aziraphale, folding instantly, ‘I absolutely cannot manage, please don’t leave me alone with her. She is a terror.’

They both looked at said terror, fast asleep and breathing so loudly it could almost have been called snoring. Aziraphale looked away first and caught the expression on Crowley’s face, a wounding mix of tenderness and pain that melted away slowly leaving him looking tired, ill and terribly sad. Aziraphale wanted to reach out to him so badly his hands ached. They’d argued before, many times, but a separation of a decade or two had usually done the trick. How did he go about repairing things now without sending Crowley far away from him? There had to be a way to show Crowley how hard he was willing to work. He would do anything.

‘Crowley, may I tell you something?’

Aziraphale was so busy steeling himself that he did not register the way Crowley recoiled, the blanket slipping from his shoulders.

‘I’ve been meaning to tell you this for a while. I do hope you won’t be angry or upset but I will understand completely if you are. I should have told you before, I shouldn’t have waited so long but I promise I had the very best of intentions and it’s been very hard for me to find the right way of…’

‘I know what you’re going to say.’

The desolation in Crowley’s disused voice took Aziraphale’s breath away.

‘Do you?’ he asked, unsure.

Had Crowley found out about the therapist somehow? His reaction was so much more extreme than Aziraphale had anticipated. He sounded like his heart was breaking.

‘I get it,’ he said.

‘Ah, right,’ said Aziraphale, warily, ‘I’m glad you understand.’

Crowley nodded again and swallowed hard. He was squeezing the mug between his hands so hard Aziraphale could almost hear the china screaming.

‘Should we talk about it?’ Aziraphale asked and Crowley began to blink faster than Aziraphale had ever seen him blink before.

‘You don’t need to explain,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper, ‘I’ll stay until Anathema picks up Persephone, and then I’ll go.’

‘Go?’ Aziraphale felt a sharp spike of panic. Had he missed something? ‘Where are you going to go?’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t stay in London.’ 

Crowley wasn’t making any sense. Why did he need to leave London? Was the mortification of Aziraphale sharing information with a therapist really bad enough that he could not even stay in the vicinity of the city?

‘Crowley, I…’

‘Angel, please don’t say it.’

The catch in Crowley’s voice was awful enough but the agony in his eyes was unbearable. Too often Aziraphale had turned away from him at the crucial moment or deliberately refused to see emotions written plain on his face. Not this time. He had crossed the room before Crowley had managed to take another shaky breath. Relieving him of his mug, Aziraphale plopped down on the sofa and wrapped his arms around him. Crowley tried to hold himself upright, not quite fighting the embrace but not submitting to it either.

‘We don’t have to talk about this today, we can do it another time. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Crowley made a choked sound and then, to Aziraphale’s surprise and horror, he burst into tears.

‘Oh, my darling,’ said Aziraphale, gathering his wits enough to begin rocking him in his arms, ‘My love, my dear one, don’t cry. It’s alright, it’s going to be alright.’

Laying his head against Aziraphale’s chest, Crowley continued to cry in an awful, silent, broken way that made Aziraphale sorry for everything he had ever done wrong since the dawn of his existence. He had never known Crowley to let himself fall apart like this.

‘What can I do?’ Aziraphale asked, desperate for an answer, ‘Tell me what I can do, my dear.’

‘Don’t leave me.’ 

Aziraphale assumed, twisted as the words were by tears, that he had misheard.

‘What was that?’

Crowley was pressed so close to him that Aziraphale would have heard the smallest whisper, he was close enough to hear thoughts.

‘I’m begging you, angel. Don’t leave me. Please.’

The shock was visceral, Aziraphale felt it in his bones.

‘Leave you? Is that what you thought I was trying to say? Crowley, my dearest, why would I? How could you think I would? I have no plans, now or ever, to leave you.’

Crowley went very still. Aziraphale felt a shiver pass through him as something of Crowley’s power sought his own, searching for the truth.

‘I love you, Crowley.’

‘But…but you said…’

‘I said I had something to tell you,’ said Aziraphale, drawing one hand up so he could stroke Crowley’s messy hair, ‘I wanted you to know that I have been trying to fix my mistakes. I’ve been seeing a therapist, that’s all. And it has nothing to do with wanting to leave you, quite the opposite in fact.’

Crowley’s breaths were still hitching but it seemed as if he was gradually gaining more control.

‘A therapist?’

‘Yes,’ said Aziraphale. It suddenly seemed absurd that he had been so worried about telling him. ‘You know, one of those people who helps you sort through your problems and work out what’s at the heart of them.’

‘I didn’t need a definition,’ said Crowley, sounding slightly more like his usual self.

‘Ah yes, I suppose an explanation is in order.’

‘No,’ said Crowley, surprising him, ‘Not if it’s going to hurt.’

Unwilling to upset him any further, Aziraphale opted to stay quiet. He had wanted to gather Crowley up in his arms like this for weeks, too afraid of rejection to take the risk. He wondered whether Crowley was comfortable but neither one of them made any attempt to move. When Persephone made a mewling sound, like a kitten in distress, Crowley stretched out one hand and rocked her basket.

‘You’re so good with her,’ said Aziraphale once she had settled back to sleep and he was reasonably sure that quiet voices would not disturb her, ‘I should never have said those things to you before. I know sorry is not good enough but I am sorry, Crowley. I really am. And I don’t think it’s Persephone who’s making you feel worse, I think that’s all me.’

Crowley, who had been idly fiddling with the chain on Aziraphale’s pocket watch, placed his palm flat on his chest.

‘Your therapist convinced you of that, have they?’

‘No,’ Aziraphale admitted, ‘But it’s what I have observed. It’s down to my lack of experience, I suppose. I really don’t know how to do any of this.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘But you do, Crowley! You’re so much better at all of it.’

Crowley gave a sad, half laugh.

‘Am I? I just pretend, Aziraphale, same way I always have. I pretend I know what I'm doing, pretend I'm not terrified.' 

Aziraphale was glad that he could not see Crowley’s face, the same way he was glad that he was holding him so tightly, it felt easier to keep talking with their hearts so close but partially hidden from each other.

‘What are you scared of, my dear?’

‘Losing you,’ said Crowley.

‘Oh, Crowley, you can’t lose me.’

‘I can and I have. How many times have you walked away from me, angel? And how many times have I not known whether it was okay to find you again? One day you’re going to truly see me as I am and you’ll never let me back in. You won’t love me.’

‘I do see you as you are, Crowley, and I do love you.’

‘You don’t see the truth. You see a better version of me, a version I wish I could live up to but that person doesn’t exist. Your love can’t change the fact that I’m a demon. Your love can’t take the darkness out of me. I wish it could.’

Aziraphale was filling with a quiet sense of horror. How could he ever have let Crowley feel like he wanted him to be something other than what he was?

‘I don’t want or need you to change.’

Crowley let out a sad sigh full of disbelief.

‘I don’t, Crowley. I accept the darkness, I accept your pain, I accept all that you are. Please, you have to believe me.’

‘I can’t,’ said Crowley, ‘You don’t want me spending time with Persephone, doesn’t that tell you something?’

‘Yes,’ said Aziraphale, the heat of shame making the words burn in his mouth, ‘It tells me that I’m jealous.’

‘Jealous?’

Aziraphale would very much like to have ducked out of the conversation at this point.

‘It’s an awful thing to admit but I saw how you reacted when Anathema said she was pregnant and I saw how deeply connected you became after you saved them both. And I suppose I started to worry about what that meant. Then when you were so good with her, when I saw how much you loved her, the worry became fear.’

‘What fear?’

Aziraphale swallowed. Closing his eyes helped just enough to let the words come.

‘I’m afraid that you want a baby more than you want me.’

Crowley pushed himself up but Aziraphale did not dare open his eyes. He knew full well how selfish his fear was, how unangelic. He had no right to demand that he was loved the most, he was not God. It was his job and his privilege to love Crowley the way he deserved to be loved; tenderly, unreservedly, passionately. And if there were things Crowley wanted more than him, people he loved more, then Aziraphale should love them too. A true angel would not struggle to love so generously.

‘Angel, look at me.’

Aziraphale did not want to see the expression on Crowley’s face. If he dismissed his fear, it would be almost as bad as telling him that he was right. Aziraphale felt like he had just sliced himself open and he could not imagine what Crowley could do to mend the jagged wound.

‘Please look at me.’

Crowley did not sound like he was laughing, nor did he sound angry or confused. Maybe he could risk a glance. Aziraphale opened his eyes and was immediately lost in Crowley’s golden gaze. The way Crowley was looking at him made no sense, he looked starstruck or lovesick or some combination of the two.

‘You don’t know how much I love you.’

He sounded happy, tremulously so but definitely happy, which seemed odd given the circumstances.

‘You can’t know,' he said, 'Not if you think there’s a chance that I could love anyone or anything more than you.’

‘But…’ said Aziraphale and he glanced involuntarily at Persephone. Crowley looked at her too. He smiled briefly and then something went out behind his eyes.

‘I do love her,’ he said, ‘But it's different. It's not...'

Crowley seemed to hover on the cusp of something and then his shoulders dropped, his words tumbling out of him in a tone of quiet resignation. 

'It came as a big surprise to me to find I was capable of love after I Fell. Didn't have to wait too long to feel it either. Just another one of those lies you get told, another way to keep angels in line. Should have been a good thing, right? I thought so, but that was before I knew how Hell worked. 

‘They weren’t all that keen on having me on Earth permanently at first so they used to check in a lot. Surprise inspections, that kind of thing. The Dark Council made it very clear what I was and was not allowed to do with some graphically specific re-education planned if I got it wrong. It wasn’t actually that difficult following their rules most of the time. Tempting is all about choice. Well, you know, you’ve done it. Give the human before you a choice and, most of the time, I believed they deserved Hell if they chose me. So I obeyed orders, I did my job, and I tried not to feel anything for anyone. But kids? It was always different with kids.’

Crowley had not looked away from Persephone but Aziraphale sensed that he was no longer seeing her.

‘That damn flood. You were the one who told me that God was going to drown everyone who wasn't on that Ark, remember? It was brave, talking to me, knowing She might be watching, telling me things I wasn't supposed to know. I wasn't even that ambitious, I was only trying to save a few of them. I mean, it was God's flood, shouldn't I have been awarded points for messing things up for Her? Hastur was the one who caught me, gleeful he was too, and needless to say, he did not find my arguments convincing enough. I should have just let them drown but they were kids. They were just kids.' 

Aziraphale could picture the scene, see Crowley as he tried to reason with the Duke of Hell to save the lives of children God was sending to their death to teach humanity a lesson. He could imagine Crowley, shielding them with his body, his wings outstretched, not a care for his own safety. Aziraphale did not need to be told what had happened to each and every one of them.

‘I’m so sorry, Crowley.’

Crowley took in a breath, tried to smile.

‘Not your fault.’

Aziraphale cringed at that. He had been there. He had helped deliver souls to Heaven but he had not tried to save any of them. It had torn at him, the guilt of it, the uncertainty, but he had put it aside because Her plan could not be questioned. God’s word was law. Apparently Crowley, who had risked everything – again – with his questions and his compassion, did not hold it against him.

‘Not my fault either,’ said Crowley, his voice hardening, ‘But we can skip over that. The point is you were right, it’s better if I love them at a distance. It's better for Persephone if she doesn't know me.' 

Aziraphale reached for him then, meaning to disagree but unsure whether it was the right time to interrupt. Crowley paused, looking down at their linked hands.

'I tried to do that with you. My love for you could have destroyed us both, long before you even knew it existed. Once I realised there was no stopping it, I tried to love you so only I would get hurt by it. But I couldn't stay away from you. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you, angel. Sometimes you were my only reason to keep going, even if I didn’t know where you were or when I might see you again. Just the possibility was enough. So you don’t ever need to worry that someone else is going to come along and eclipse my love for you. They can’t.’

Crowley gave a little shrug and finally lifted his eyes to meet Aziraphale’s.

‘I love you more than anything.’

Aziraphale’s throat was too tight to speak. It was all he could do to pull Crowley towards him and kiss the salt-tear taste from his lips.

‘You still want this?’ Crowley whispered when they broke apart.

‘Yes,’ said Aziraphale, pouring his whole heart and soul into the word, ‘Yes, Crowley. Of course I do. It was Hell that hurt people, not your love.' 

When Crowley continued to look doubtful, Aziraphale cast around for some way to convince him. He was not going back to the way it was before, not now he knew the unrivalled brilliance of loving Crowley up close. No sooner had he thought this than an idea occurred to him, dropping fully formed into his mind.

‘Show me the version of you that you believe I cannot love. Show me and I will prove you wrong.’

Crowley pulled back.

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

Crowley let out a sharp hiss.

‘Have you listened to a word I’ve said?’

Aziraphale knew it was wrong of him but he was almost glad to have angered Crowley, it was a relief to see something other than devastation on his face. 

‘If it’s Persephone you’re worried about, that’s an easy problem to fix. She’s asleep anyway and she won’t remember a thing.’

‘No,’ Crowley said again.

This time Aziraphale did not seek to change his mind. He forced himself to stay absolutely still, keeping his mind calm, his expression that combination of hopeful with just a touch of pleading that Crowley found so very hard to resist. Crowley glared at him and Aziraphale met his look with nothing but patience. They had all night, after all.

‘I’m not going to do it.’

‘Please?’

‘Aziraphale…’

‘How else can I prove to you that I love you as you are?’

Crowley opened his mouth but bit back whatever he was going to say before it could cross his lips. Aziraphale heard the words anyway.

‘Have some faith in me, my dear.’

‘I do,’ said Crowley and Aziraphale saw his resolve begin to falter. He wanted to be proved wrong. He did not believe he would be but he wanted it so very badly.

‘Show me,’ said Aziraphale, gently, expectantly.

Crowley looked at him beseechingly, hoping for a reprieve, but Aziraphale wanted too and he was not going to make the same mistake again.

‘Fine!’ said Crowley, pointing at Persephone, ‘But she leaves.’

Aziraphale conceded to this demand immediately. With infinite care, he carried Persephone, snug in her basket, into the next room. He waited a few seconds after putting her down, satisfying himself that she was not about to wake. They would hear her if she cried. Crowley would never have permitted her to be out of earshot.

When he returned to the back room, he found Crowley standing in the middle of it, shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot.

‘Are you sure you want me to do this?’

Aziraphale sat back down on the sofa, intending to present as unworried and relaxed as possible.

‘Absolutely. Whenever you’re ready.’

Crowley looked very much like he was hoping for a different answer but he did not attempt to change Aziraphale’s mind. For a few seconds he simply stood there and then, slowly, reluctantly, he began to change. Aziraphale had expected the blast of heat, a fire set free. He had seen Crowley’s wings before, of course, and they were unchanged, their darkness contrasting with the glow of his eyes, the spark of embers falling from his fingertips. Other demons had visible creatures adorning their forms but Crowley was one. Scales lined his throat, along his jaw, his skin claimed by them. Not one part of him was unchanged, untouched. He was a being of Hell through and through, a nightmare come to life, but he was still Crowley and Aziraphale was not afraid.

Aziraphale stood, not an easy thing to do in the presence of such power and beauty.

‘Don’t,’ Crowley said as he stepped towards him. His voice hurt Aziraphale’s ears, fire-heat burning his skin, but Aziraphale kept walking.

‘I love you,’ he said, stopping only when he was close enough to touch Crowley’s face. His skin blistered, scorch blasted, but Aziraphale did not pull away. His lips seared as they kissed, his throat filling with ash and smoke, but before he could choke, Crowley had changed back and was kissing the hurt away, his lips and whisper soft touches full of repentance.

‘I see you,’ said Aziraphale, the moment Crowley would let him, ‘And I love you. Not some idealised version of you but you as you are. Believe me, Crowley. I want all of you, this close, all the time.’

Crowley could only stare at him in wonder and in doubt, kissing him again and again, desperate to believe him. And that was just fine. It was a start. From there, they could keep going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> Thank you for braving the hurt to get here. One chapter to go.


	10. Lights and Stars

The streets surrounding the bookshop twinkled with lights. Aziraphale had not been able to resist adding some extra Christmas sparkle when they first went up though it was possible that he had overdone it slightly. The life sized nativity scene was a bit much. Crowley disapproved, grumbling about parking now that the extra tourist traffic had made navigating the local roads in the Bentley an even more miracle heavy affair than normal. But Aziraphale had caught him pointing at the baby Jesus to show Persephone, the lights hanging above them dancing in her eyes like stars as she gurgled and smiled.

It had taken a fair bit of persuasion and more patience than Aziraphale usually had to spare but he had finally managed to convince Crowley that he was not going to do Persephone any harm just by looking after her. Anathema had enthusiastically agreed with this, not entirely helpfully telling them both that she intended to ensure Persephone was as fully immersed in the world of occultism as she had been and that having a demon babysitter was giving her the best possible start in life.

‘Better that it’s you,’ said Aziraphale, suppressing visions of Beezlebub with a bug themed baby carrier strapped to their chest, ‘God only knows who she’ll manage to find to do the job otherwise.’ 

They had been making slow but steady progress, a still fragile Crowley insisting that Aziraphale was present whenever Persephone was around, and then Newt and Anathema had both come down with flu. Wishing to protect their child from the virus and unable to give her the constant care she needed, Anathema had asked Crowley to take care of her. Crowley, in turn, had asked Aziraphale whether he would mind. They were getting a little better at that – asking and answering – and each time it got a little easier.

A fortnight on and Newt had only just returned to work, Anathema was still barely able to function, and Crowley and Persephone were inseparable. Aziraphale found he did not mind so much that they were only able to snatch quick kisses in the kitchen while Crowley made up bottles or that Crowley had fallen asleep on him mid-conversation the previous evening. He was a lot better at finding the grace in such things now, something he had been attempting to explain to Susanna for the past fifteen minutes. He only stopped when he realised that she had been letting him gush without pause with a knowing smile on her face. 

‘It sounds like you are falling in love with your partner all over again.’

Aziraphale flushed, immediately rebelling against this idea. It felt like a tiny betrayal, an admission that he did not love Crowley enough already but Susanna halted his snowballing thoughts with a practiced hand.

‘Love is not something you fall into and that’s it. It is an ever shifting, changing thing. We build it out of feelings and choices, sacrifice and compromise, passion and promises.’

Aziraphale was unhappier still with this concept. Heaven had never allowed the possibility that love for the Almighty might be anything less than constant and all consuming. Should his love for Crowley not be the same? Words of Shakespeare came to him and he muttered them under his breath.

‘Love is not love which alters when it alternation finds, or bends with the remover to remove.’

‘Oh, no, it is an ever-fixed mark,’ said Susanna in a soft voice suited to the poetry, ‘That looks on tempests and is never shaken.’ She smiled. ‘No disrespect to the Bard but I don’t believe this particular sonnet is a healthy template on which to base your own or anyone else’s love. We do ourselves a disservice and deny the possibility for growth by expecting things to be constant. It’s a brave and difficult thing, keeping love alive in this world.’

Aziraphale was still thinking on this and all they had discussed as he made his way home. It had been their last session by mutual agreement. Aziraphale thought he might feel relieved, maybe even a little joyful at having made sufficient progress to stop their weekly sessions, but instead he felt oddly bereft. His Monday evening appointments had come to feel like an anchor, guiding him back to safe waters when things were turbulent.

‘We’ve worked through a lot over the last year,’ Susanna had said, before they had parted, ‘I know you believe that you came here for one specific reason but I hope you can see now that it was never as simple as that. It’s time to apply all that you have learned and see how things go. You can always come back.’

Aziraphale held tight to that thought as he entered the bookshop. Having become used to baby related clutter on every surface, he was surprised to find that most of it had vanished. Persephone herself was still in attendance, her babbling leading him through to the kitchen. She was sitting in her bouncy chair, kicking her chubby little legs and cooing at her own cleverness. As Aziraphale moved into the room, he saw the way her eyes followed Crowley, captivated by him. She barely afforded him a glance. Aziraphale gave her a cursory pat on the head. He would have stooped to kiss her but the copious drool that came with her teething was incredibly off-putting. Crowley, over by the sink, was muttering darkly to himself.

‘What’s going on, my dear?’

‘Anathema is coming,’ said Crowley, his hands full of a mixture of clean and dirty bottles, ‘She’s picking Persephone up in about half an hour.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Aziraphale felt his way through his own feelings before asking, ‘Are you alright with that?’

‘I will be once I figure out how everything fits inside this damn thing.’ 

Crowley gave the changing bag he was attempting to repack an angry shake. His urge to perform a miracle was radiating off him in waves.

‘Let me,’ said Aziraphale though in truth he was merely going to wait until Crowley took Persephone out of the room before sorting things out the easy way. They brushed past each other, Crowley’s attention already on Persephone who was making little chirruping noises, like a baby bird that knows it’s about to be fed.

‘Yes, yes, I’m coming.’

Aziraphale watched him pick her up, saw the delight in Persephone’s gummy smile.

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’ he asked.

Crowley turned around. Persephone had already grabbed the travesty of a scarf he wore in one chubby wrist and was yanking on it. Crowley carefully unwound her fingers as he said, ‘What are you worried about, angel?’

‘You,’ said Aziraphale, forcing himself to be honest, ‘And what happens when she leaves.’

Persephone was pulling on Crowley’s scarf again and this time he did not try to stop her. There was a smile playing on his lips and a look in his eyes that Aziraphale had not seen in a while, a look that could tempt saintlier souls than him.

‘I know what I want to happen when she’s gone,’ said Crowley. Even the way he was rocking Persephone in his arms somehow made Aziraphale feel like his collar was too tight. ‘But if you have other ideas, I’m sure I could be persuaded.’

Aziraphale was not sure whether Crowley would allow himself to be kissed while he held the baby but Aziraphale closed the gap between them anyway, Crowley angling himself so Persephone did not get caught between them.

‘Come to dinner with me.’

‘You asking me on a date, angel?’

Aziraphale slipped his arm around Crowley’s waist and pulled him in closer still. Persephone gave a throaty gurgle but was roundly ignored.

‘Dinner,’ said Aziraphale, who had lost the ability to speak in full sentences, ‘Please?’

Crowley’s smile was a flash of teeth and wickedness.

‘Make it some place fancy and you’ve got yourself a deal.’

When Anathema arrived a short while later, wrapped up like she was an arctic explorer and coughing hard, she was presented with Persephone, already dressed in her coat and hat and strapped into her car seat. As they waved them both goodbye, Anathema extracting promises that they would both be over for Christmas Eve, Aziraphale slipped his hand into the back pocket of Crowley’s tight jeans. The very instant the front door closed behind them, Crowley rounded on him, pressing such a fierce kiss on him that Aziraphale’s knees buckled.

‘Ready to go?’

Aziraphale nodded, mutely, though he could not for the life of him remember why leaving the bookshop had ever seemed like a good idea in the first place.

A quick change and a fast drive later, Aziraphale was wholeheartedly glad to be out in the world. Christmas at the Ritz was something truly special. With a week to go until the big day, the hotel was holding nothing back. Aziraphale tried to tamper down his delight at the sight of the decorations, the creativity and sheer extravagance of each opulent display astounding. He did not want to overdo the glee and prompt another one of Crowley’s rants on December 25th being the wrong bloody date. Crowley, however, seemed to be in an extraordinarily permissive mood.

‘You must like that one,’ he said, pointing at the enormous Christmas tree in the centre of the dining room, ‘It even has an angel on the top.’

It did have an angel, and red ribbons, and golden stars, and intricate glass baubles that caught the light and glowed. Aziraphale was on the verge of blessing the entire tree, the entire room. It was all so breathtakingly, gorgeously perfect.

‘I’m so glad we’re here,’ he said, for perhaps the tenth time, squeezing Crowley’s hand as they were led to their table.

When they were seated, Aziraphale busied himself with unfolding his napkin. He was feeling distinctly overemotional, sitting in the beautiful dining room of the Ritz, with the pianist playing Ave Maria, and Crowley, wonderful, beautiful Crowley, leaning back in his seat and taking it all in. When Aziraphale felt composed enough to look up, he was met with the kind of smile Crowley reserved only for him.

‘You look happy, angel.’

‘I am,’ said Aziraphale, taking a deep breath. He wanted to remember every detail of this night, and he certainly did not want to ruin it by getting himself worked up. ‘I was just thinking about how fortunate I am.’

He placed his hand on the white tablecloth between them, feeling a foolish burst of nerves which Crowley was quick to dismiss. They remained hand in hand, sipping champagne, the music washing over them, and Aziraphale felt sure that there was no one in the dining room or the whole of London who was luckier than him.

The food, naturally, was sublime. From the starter of quince and blue cheese tartlets to the succulent duck with its apricot and honey glaze right through to the caramelised pears on their impossibly intricate meringue islands. Each bite was a masterpiece and Aziraphale savoured every one of them. He even succeeded in getting Crowley to eat a passable amount which pleased him no end. Somewhere between the main course and dessert, Aziraphale had managed to trap one of Crowley’s legs between his own and it was only by talking incessantly that he was able to distract himself from the flashpoint touch of knee on thigh.

Lightheaded and tipsy on joy and champagne, Aziraphale felt charged with a spirit of optimism that entirely eclipsed his anxieties.

‘It was my last therapy session today.’

Crowley lowered his glass, his expression inscrutable. Thus far they had discussed his therapy in only the vaguest of terms. Crowley would ask him if it had gone well, Aziraphale would answer in the affirmative and then, should he show the slightest inclination to elaborate, Crowley would find some pressing need to be elsewhere. It was a risk to bring it up now, but Aziraphale hardly thought it likely that Crowley would spoil their evening by leaving him alone at the table.

‘I thought you might like to know what I have discovered recently.’

Crowley half turned in his chair, their legs knocking together not altogether pleasantly as he downed the rest of his glass.

‘Must we discuss my failings here, now?’ 

‘What failings?’ Aziraphale asked, ‘I did not submit to the indignities of therapy in order to disparage you. I went to learn what is wrong with me.’

Crowley frowned.

‘There’s nothing wrong with you.’

Aziraphale felt a burst of fondness flare in his chest at Crowley’s loyalty.

‘I appreciate the sentiment, my dear, but surely even you would not argue with the fact that there are things I might need help figuring out.’

Crowley twirled his empty glass between his fingertips, staring down at it.

‘I take it there’s something you wish to tell me.’

‘Yes,’ said Aziraphale, ‘I think it will be of great interest to you. It concerns sex.’

Crowley’s glass tipped sideways, toppling off the edge of the table. The tinkling smash was barely audible in the crowded room. Aziraphale repaired and returned it to the table top, refilling it as an afterthought. Crowley did not seem to notice.

‘You talked to your therapist about _that_?’

‘Amongst other things, yes,’ said Aziraphale, surprised that he had so easily flustered Crowley with a single word, ‘It is a source of contention between us, is it not?’

‘No,’ said Crowley, forcefully, ‘I’m happy with what we have. Honestly, angel, I don’t…’

‘I know.’

Aziraphale reached out a hand and Crowley grasped at it clumsily, almost upsetting his glass a second time.

‘Crowley, would you listen?’ He passed his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles, wanting to kiss each one of them. ‘This isn’t about forcing myself to do something I don’t want to do because I do, I do want to, but I believe my interest, for the moment at least, lies solely in the giving of pleasure. Would that be alright with you?’

Crowley stared at him, blankly.

‘Are you quite alright, my dear?’

Crowley gave a tiny, barely perceptible nod. Aziraphale wondered if he had been unclear. This was not quite the enthusiastic response he had been hoping for.

‘Would you be interested in receiving pleasure from me that way?’

An inarticulate sound was Crowley’s only reply. Aziraphale felt it like a dull punch to the sternum. Of course Crowley was free to decline.

‘I’ll take that as a no then.’ 

‘I didn’t say no,’ said Crowley, sitting up straighter.

‘Oh?’

Aziraphale’s hopes rose as fast as the bubbles in his champagne.

‘I’m just surprised,’ said Crowley, who certainly looked as if this was the last thing he expected to be discussing over dinner.

‘I can’t blame you there. It has taken me an atrociously long time to get to this point and I confess I am extremely apprehensive at the thought of disappointing you.’

‘That’s not…’ Crowley began, he appeared to be having trouble maintaining a coherent train of thought. After a few moments he leaned forwards, lifted Aziraphale’s hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘Just take things at your own pace, angel. Really, this is enough for me.’

‘Actually,’ said Aziraphale, who thought he might as well spell things out as best he could while he was feeling brave, ‘I was hoping we could make a start tonight.’

This time Crowley’s elbow slipped off the table and he almost toppled right off his chair. Aziraphale felt it best to leave any further discussion of the subject until they had left the premises. He did wish for them to be permitted to return to this establishment, after all.

* * *

What with Aziraphale wishing everyone in sight a merry Christmas and sprinkling additional blessings on anyone within range, Crowley was surprised that it only took them half an hour to exit the dining room. For his own sanity’s sake he was not allowing himself to dwell on Aziraphale’s post meal conversation. He knew his angel, knew that the appreciation of good food extended well beyond the eating of it. Crowley had known him to ramble on for hours on the singular qualities of a particularly wonderful crème brulee that he’d once had on a cruise ship bound for Spain so it was perfectly reasonable to believe that reliving and recounting the three course spectacular he had just enjoyed would keep Aziraphale occupied for the rest of the night. Turning his back on the lights and the merriment, Crowley buried his hands in the pocket of his coat.

He wanted what Aziraphale was offering, he always had, whether that be a concealed smile, a snatched conversation across enemy lines or the brush of his fingers when Aziraphale was too drunk to notice how close they were to each other. He wanted kisses that went on all night and the kind of tight embrace that told him that they had made it, at last, to a place where they could touch each other and it would not end them both. And if Crowley wanted other things, so badly at times that the ache of it consumed him, that was his problem to deal with as he saw fit. He would endure far worse than frustrated lust before he allowed Aziraphale to do anything he was not comfortable with.

The idea of Aziraphale being talked into sex by an interfering human who had no business knowing anything about them made Crowley want to do some serious evil, the kind he had been trying to avoid for so long he had almost forgotten he was capable. It was no one else’s business what form their relationship took or what it did or did not involve. Crowley did not for one moment believe that Aziraphale’s love was any less because it did not manifest itself sexually. And if there were times that it felt as if Aziraphale might want more, if his hesitation sometimes felt more like invitation, that was up to him. Crowley was not going to be the one to make that decision for him.

Finally finished with his holy work, Aziraphale joined Crowley, slipping an arm through his and beaming. His happiness was a physical, palpable thing that made all the uncertain, tormented things inside Crowley’s mind scuttle back into the shadows. It was still hard to be around other people, to hold it all together, but Aziraphale made it easier.

‘Shall we walk for a while? Or would you like to go straight home?’

Crowley was not generally a fan of aimlessly walking in the freezing cold but it seemed Aziraphale was not ready to let the night end. He had to admit as well that the lights draped above the roads were beautiful, even if they did mean that there was no chance at all of seeing any of the few stars able to shine through the permanent haze of pollution that engulfed the city. 

‘Oh!’ said Aziraphale, increasingly his speed and pulling Crowley along with him, ‘Look!’

They had come upon a little square which had been decorated to within an inch of its life, messily painted snowmen and stars covering the railings. It was nowhere near as fancy or as grand as the decorations they had left behind at the Ritz but Aziraphale was looking at them like they were gifts from Heaven itself. A handpainted sign hung lopsided on the fence surrounding the central tree: _The pupils and staff of St George’s Primary School wish you a Merry Christmas! _

Half of the lights on one side of the tree had gone out but Aziraphale fixed them, beaming so brightly that it was impossible not to join in. There was an ache in Crowley’s chest that had nothing to do with the cold. Aziraphale really was impossibly beautiful.

‘Do you remember that Christmas we spent together?’ Aziraphale asked, his gloved hands gripping the railings before him, ‘When was it, 1983?’

Crowley’s smile slipped. He recalled sitting in a rundown hotel bar on Christmas Eve, drinking steadily with no intention of stopping. He had been upset and Aziraphale turning up unexpectedly looking like the Ghost of Christmas Present had not been entirely welcome.

‘I remember.' 

Aziraphale looked over at him and then back at the tree, his face lit in soft tones of blue, red and green.

‘You told me to leave you alone.’

Crowley did not particularly want to relive this memory, pushing Aziraphale away had never been his first choice option.

‘I’d had a really shitty week.’

‘I could tell,’ said Aziraphale.

‘You made it better.’

Aziraphale smiled.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I could tell that too.’

He turned to face Crowley, outshining the decorations behind him with ease.

‘You know, I always wondered,’ Aziraphale had a playful, curious look on his face, ‘Were you trying to tempt me that night?’

So he had known all along. Crowley had been drunk long before Aziraphale had found him, drunk and desperate for something to counter the suffering and death taking over his world. The virus had not been his idea, he doubted whether even Satan himself could have devised something so hideous, but Hell had commended him for it all the same and Crowley had gone along with it, making himself sick in the process. When Aziraphale had arrived, blissed out on Christmas spirit, Crowley had wondered whether this was his last chance. If he ever got wind of Hell’s assumptions, if he believed them, Aziraphale would never forgive him.

‘Would you have let me?’ Crowley asked, remembering too well how hard it had been to pull back, how for years he had alternated between cursing and congratulating himself for not going through with it.

The present Aziraphale stepped closer and Crowley was suddenly seized by the irrational fear that they had gone back in time, back to when touch was forbidden and standing like this was the closest he would ever get to holding him.

‘I think I would have,’ said Aziraphale, ‘But I’m glad you didn’t. Just think of what they would have done to us, to you.’

‘Angel…’

Aziraphale stepped closer. His lips held the sweetness of pears. 

‘It’s all different now,’ he said, his words a promise, ‘There’s nothing between us.’

They kissed again, Aziraphale’s tongue pressing into his mouth. After a few minutes of that Crowley was already feeling a bit blurry round the edges. When Aziraphale whispered, low and insistent, ‘Come to bed with me, darling’, Crowley had no words or sense left to refuse.

The taxi ride home was a breathless haze of touch and taste. Aziraphale, who was usually scrupulously discrete in public, had his hands everywhere. Crowley moaned into his mouth and received a filthy kiss in response. Aziraphale took care of the practicalities, paying the driver, pulling Crowley into the bookshop and leading him by the hand up the stairs. When Aziraphale kissed him again, both of them standing beside the bed, Crowley sent a sincere prayer of gratitude out into the universe. His mind was too scrambled to end things now, he did not want to think at all, did not want to foresee the jarring stop when Aziraphale realised things had got too out of hand.

They were both still fully dressed, having managed only to shed their coats somewhere along the way. Crowley wanted to undo buttons and untuck shirts and run his fingernails down Aziraphale’s back but he did not know the rules to this game and he was all too aware that one wrong move might drive Aziraphale away. His whole body was alight with the need to be touched but he stayed absolutely still, letting Aziraphale make the decision on what to do next. 

‘Do you want to…?’ Aziraphale asked, pinching the hem of Crowley’s T-shirt and giving it a light tug. Crowley was halfway to miracling every stitch of clothing from them both before he remembered himself. 

‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, trying not to sound as tightly wound as he felt, ‘Tell me what to do, angel.’

‘I was rather hoping you would instruct me,’ said Aziraphale, ‘I am new to all of this, my dear.’

_So am I_, Crowley wanted to say,_ It’s never been you_. 

Yes, he had fucked people but it had been transactional, a means to an end. Once they were tempted, they succumbed entirely, never turning down his hands, his mouth, or whatever happened to be between his legs. Whatever he had, they took. And yes, sometimes the sex had been enjoyable but that had never been the point of it, more of an accidental by-product that had occasionally made him feel something other than revulsion. No one in his entire time on Earth had ever asked or cared what he wanted, no one but Aziraphale.

‘Darling, what’s wrong?’ Aziraphale asked, ‘You’re shaking.’

‘I…’ Crowley needed to pull himself together. He was ruining everything. As he always did. ‘Kiss me.’

Aziraphale did as he was told, hesitantly at first then with more confidence. Crowley let his kisses work their holy magic and when Aziraphale began to peel the clothing off him, Crowley put up no resistance.

In bed now and Aziraphale had stripped down to his shirt and trousers, apparently unable to commit himself any further. Crowley was naked and, as long as Aziraphale was kissing him, happy to be so.

‘Crowley?’ Aziraphale’s lips were pink and kiss tender. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask, do you…have you ever touched yourself?’

Crowley choked out a laugh.

‘Of course I have. How do you think I survive living with you?’

His mind somewhat preoccupied, the words tripped off his tongue and made Aziraphale flinch.

‘S-sorry,’ said Crowley, half frantic at the thought that Aziraphale might pull back from him now, ‘Angel, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--’

Crowley kissed him, relieved to be allowed to even as he berated himself for wanting something that was so irrelevant, so inconsequential compared to what he had already.

‘I am not offended, darling.’ Aziraphale planted kisses along his jaw and Crowley bit his lip, trying to keep his mind in the moment. ‘I was only curious.’

His hand began to trail downwards, fingertips brushing over Crowley’s ribs, down towards his stomach and lower still, grazing his hip with the softest of touches.

‘May I?’ he asked but Crowley no longer had the power of speech. He had closed his eyes when Aziraphale’s roving hand passed his waist and could not open them, could not not bear to do or say anything that might make all of this go away. Aziraphale’s fingers continued to dance on his skin, waiting. He required permission or he would go no further.

‘Crowley, do you want me to touch you?’

Crowley managed to nod and as soon as he did Aziraphale’s fingers went lower still. The rush of sensation that came to him was like a lightning strike. Crowley choked on his own cry and grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist, his mind starting to clear the moment Aziraphale let go.

‘What is it?’ Aziraphale asked, flustered, ‘Did I do something wrong?’

Crowley shook his head. He could hardly believe he was going to say this but he was not going to survive any other way.

‘Could you…can you go slower?’

Aziraphale blinked in surprise.

‘You’ve been waiting such a long time, I thought…’

Crowley did not think he had the ability to explain. It made no sense to him either. All his wanting, all his longing, and he was ready to beg Aziraphale to make him wait a little longer. How could he not be ready after all this time? A single word was all he could manage.

‘Please.’

Aziraphale kissed him then, long and deep.

‘I’m very good at slow,’ he said, ‘Something of an expert.’

Crowley could not help but smile at that.

‘May I try again?’

When Aziraphale’s fingers wrapped themselves around him again, Crowley hissed but this time Aziraphale was in no hurry. His hand was soft and warm, the feel of him so much better than Crowley had ever imagined it to be and he had put his imagination to work on that particularly task far more often than he would ever care to admit.

‘Is this okay?’ Aziraphale asked, stroking gently.

‘Yes.’

‘And this?’

‘Yes.’

‘This?’

‘Yesssss.’

Waves of light were washing over him, pressure building. Crowley bit down hard on his lip to stop him from losing it completely.

‘Slower?’ Aziraphale asked, misinterpreting the tense way Crowley grasped for him.

‘Faster, angel. Faster would be good.’

‘Like this?’

Crowley’s head fell back. There were stars, bright and beautiful, gathering at the edges of his mind, swirling into life the way they always had back when he had the power to will them into being. With just his touch, Aziraphale was bringing back to him what had been lost. Crowley did not know why he was surprised, it was exactly the kind of thing Aziraphale had been doing for him for millennia.

‘Angel…’

The stars were getting brighter, so many of them. It was too much, too overwhelming. He did not deserve…

‘You are beautiful, my darling. You are so beautiful.’

Aziraphale’s voice was starlight itself. There was a brief pause, a dimming of the sky, as Aziraphale repositioned himself. When he spoke again, it was a hot whisper in Crowley’s ear.

‘I love you.’ 

Crowley was barely able to gasp Aziraphale’s name.

‘You are patient,’ Aziraphale said softly in response, ‘You are kind, and loving, and wonderful, and you are so, so good. And you are _mine_.’

Crowley made a sound he had never made before, a cry of pure surrender as the stars inside his mind exploded. Relief and joy and ecstasy all merged with the miraculous beauty of the universe in all her glory. Every colour imaginable, every divine sound, all the beating hearts of creation, Crowley saw and heard and was them all. If it had lasted any longer than a few indescribable seconds he might well have been torn apart by the sheer majesty of it.

Crowley shuddered, bright starfire still blinding him. He might have stayed lost to it for a lot longer had he not heard Aziraphale's breath catch on a word Crowley had never heard him utter before. 

‘Oh _fuck_.’

Breathing hard, clawing his way back to himself, Crowley realised he was still clinging to Aziraphale whose face was flushed a glorious pink, his gaze hazily unfocused.

‘You okay, angel?’

Aziraphale’s eyes focused with some difficulty on Crowley, his expression opening up into delighted surprise.

‘I didn’t expect to…’ he whispered, ‘I felt…you. Is that…? Does that always happen?’ 

Crowley was not sure how to reply, not really comprehending what had happened. There were shiver-spasms of pleasure running through him making it a struggle to think straight and still Aziraphale searched his face for something, an answer he did not know how to give.

‘I saw so many stars,’ Aziraphale continued, ‘I’ve never seen anything like them. I’ve never felt…’

‘Me neither.’

‘Really?’

In Aziraphale’s eyes, wide and wonderstruck, Crowley saw everything, every secret thing, reflected back at him. All the desperate, hopeless, endless ways he loved Aziraphale were accounted for and laid bare. There was nowhere to hide any more. Tears came before Crowley was even conscious of them, betraying him still further.

‘Crowley, dearest, are you not happy?’

Crowley’s laugh was more of a sob as he buried his face in Aziraphale’s shirt. He had literally just been fucked by an angel. His angel.

‘Of course I’m happy.’

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him as Crowley fought and lost the battle to get himself under control. He was happy, incandescently so, but he also felt blasted open and exposed by that same happiness. How could he explain it? Would Aziraphale ever be able to understand?

‘Hush now,’ said Aziraphale, ‘Hush, my darling. It’s alright. I know.’

He kissed the top of Crowley’s head and tightened his embrace. Aziraphale’s completely unnecessary heartbeat, the most comforting and wonderful sound in the universe, was the calming influence he needed. Crowley listened, loving hard, until at last he was able to believe what had just happened and be amazed by it.

‘That was…you are incredible. Thank you, angel.’

Aziraphale squeezed him a little tighter.

‘It was good, wasn’t it?’ he said, sounding a little smug. Aziraphale knew divine ecstasy when he saw it. ‘Just think what I could do with a little practice.’

Crowley’s mind stalled. He was pretty sure he was only one tiny nudge away from discorporating out of sheer transcendent shock.

‘You want to do it again?’ he finally managed to ask.

‘Of course!’ said Aziraphale, as if this was a ridiculous question to ask someone who had managed precisely one hand job in the thousands of years Crowley would have sold his infernal soul for one, ‘That is, if you would like to continue being sexually intimate with me?’

Experiencing the most mind blowing orgasm of his life seemed to have eradicated Crowley’s ability to think beyond the next minute. Hopefully it was temporary.

‘Er…well, yes.’

‘Good!’ said Aziraphale, who did not sound like he had doubted the answer, ‘It seems to me as if a new arrangement is in order.’

‘A new what?’

Crowley was seriously struggling to keep up.

‘An arrangement, my dear,’ said Aziraphale, warming to his theme, ‘You can teach me about sex and all the things you like, and I rather think I can teach you that you are worthy and deserving of all the love I can give you. It really would be a most satisfying combination, don’t you think?’

_Most satisfying?_

Crowley was trying to wrap his head around Aziraphale’s thorough command of the situation when a thought occurred to him. He had never before considered that there would have been other firsts. There must have been a first time Aziraphale permitted himself to sully his angelic form by sampling human food. There was a first time he gave in to curiosity and allowed himself to actively pursue knowledge. A first concert. A first poetry reading. A first book. All of Aziraphale's most beloved indulgences had a beginning, each one an act of courage. When had forcing himself to share a loaf of bread to fit in amongst the locals become something Aziraphale had allowed himself to enjoy? His all-too-human love of pleasure and comfort had been a feature of his personality for so long that Crowley had taken it for granted. He was Aziraphale and that had always been answer enough.

Then Crowley thought of Aziraphale as he had been across the table from him at dinner that evening, relishing everything, denying himself nothing. If Crowley was not mistaken agreeing to this new arrangement might well mean he was in some serious fucking trouble. For the love of Satan, God and all the other Someone’s in the universe, he really, truly hoped so. He was going to be the best damn meal of Aziraphale’s eternal life.

‘You can do whatever you want to me any time, angel.' 

There seemed no point in pretending that he was in any way in charge.

‘You think it a good idea then?’

Beside him, Aziraphale was already wiggling, a sure sign that he was pleased with himself.

‘Yeah,’ said Crowley, lazily, ‘Best one you’ve ever had.’

‘Now, now,’ said Aziraphale, managing to sound thrilled even as he scolded, ‘Let’s not get carried away but I will concede that it’s one of my better ones.’

Crowley smiled sleepily as Aziraphale settled himself more comfortably on the pillows. It did not feel entirely real, this blissful contentment. It was like a dream. How could it be possible that he was allowed to have all this?

‘I think this may be the happiest anyone has ever been,’ said Aziraphale, obliterating very effectively the little doubts that were starting to bubble up in Crowley’s traitorous mind, ‘I adore you, Crowley.’

It was certainly the happiest a demon had ever been, Crowley was confident of that.

‘Love you, angel.’

He hoped Aziraphale would hold him this close all night. Maybe one day they could lie like this skin on skin, Aziraphale brave enough to let himself be touched and loved and worshipped the way he deserved. Maybe Crowley would learn the touches Aziraphale liked best, hear his name whispered breathless and pleading, taste Aziraphale’s skin in the afterglow. It did not need to be soon or ever, really. Crowley would take what came, as he always had.

Breathing in Aziraphale’s soft cotton warmth, Crowley let go of thoughts one by one until he was left only with the quiet bliss of knowing he was loved. The morning would come, things would change, they would both find ways to fuck it all up again no doubt, but if Aziraphale could see the worst and still want him, then maybe Crowley could look at the worst of himself too without fearing it. Maybe all he needed to do was follow Aziraphale’s lead. Now, tomorrow and always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for making this fic such a pleasure to share. I'm actually quite emotional to have finished it, it was more of a rollercoaster than I was originally anticipating. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr @marbledwings


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